


A Lavender Marriage

by TheKnightsWhoSay



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, Fake Marriage, Historical AU, M/M, Smut, bohemian Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28857387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnightsWhoSay/pseuds/TheKnightsWhoSay
Summary: The year is 1910, and to fit in with English society, Erwin and Historia have entered a marriage of convenience to hide who they really are.(In which Historia and her lover, Ymir, scheme a way to find her husband a man.)
Relationships: Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Levi/Erwin Smith
Comments: 199
Kudos: 339





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by E.M. Forster's 'Maurice', one of my favourite novels. It was written in 1913 when homosexuality was still illegal in the UK and only published after his death in 1970.
> 
> I wrote this as a one-shot, but thanks to lots of encouragement, it is now a much longer story! I have a loose idea of where it's going, and will publish chapters as I write them <3 please let me know if anyone has any more ideas for things you would like to see happen!

_**May 1910** _

“I’m worried about Erwin,” said Erwin’s wife to her lover.

“You are? How so?” asked Ymir. The two women lay in bed together, skin flushed from their lovemaking, dressed only in their cotton nightgowns, hair unbound and loosely plaited. Ymir traced lazy patterns along Historia’s collarbone.

“He’s retreating into himself again, I just know it. I’m worried it might become as bad as it was three years ago.”

“I thought he told you everything.”

“Not everything, no. You know how I care for him, Ymir. I would go as far as to say I love him, as he loves me. I believe I am his closest friend and confidant in the whole world-“

Ymir snorted, “It’s quite amusing, really. That you two should have a deeper trust and love than most married couples I know. Normal couples, that is.”

“It’s true. I think we’re very lucky we found each other. How many men would let me lie with you? How many men would grant me my independence?”

Ymir smiled, and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips, “but you were saying? About Erwin. About trust.”

“Oh, yes. I was. He’s…Oh, I don’t know. I get the feeling he’s awfully lonely and torturing himself with it. He doesn’t have anyone to confide in except me and there are things we can’t share. Like this. I guess I just wish he could have what we have. A partner. A lover. Someone to bare his soul to.”

“That’s a beautiful thing to dream about, Historia, but you know how difficult that would be. In England, even more so. For us it is an easy thing to hide, scarcely mentioned or imagined by the law, but for men it is different.”

Historia sighed, “I know that, but it doesn’t stop me worrying. And dreaming.”

The two lovers were quiet for a while, pondering the conundrum. It was a hard thing to find Love in a country where such Love is illegal. Ymir and Historia lay together in softness and sweetness, enjoying the warmth of each other’s embrace, defying the World.

“How about Paris?” Ymir said eventually.

“Paris? What about Paris?”

“Why don’t we take Erwin to Paris? You know how I miss it, and it’s been almost a year since we’ve been back. Why not take Erwin this time?”

“That’s not a bad idea. It might do him some good to let loose a little, maybe find himself a lover, if even for a short while. I just don’t know that he’ll want to go. It’s been years since he travelled, and he hasn’t indicated any yearning for it.”

“Well, you shan’t know if you don’t ask.”

“Quite right. Now kiss me and let’s forget about Erwin for the rest of the night.”

Ymir smiled as she pressed her lips to Historia’s and all thoughts of Erwin were quickly forgotten.

* * *

The white-domed _Basilique du Sacré-Cœur_ shone like a jewel above the smoking chimney stacks as Erwin, Historia and Ymir travelled through the streets of Paris. Montmartre seemed to call to them, physically rising above the city, a beacon.

Erwin knew he should feel excited, but he didn’t. He felt heavy, fatigued and antisocial, and the last thing he wanted was to spend time partying.

He had agreed to join because Historia had insisted and left him with little room to refuse. Why they should want him to accompany them when he knew he would only get in the way, he could not understand. So far, the journey had been amicable enough. Erwin and Ymir might not consider themselves friends, but their shared love of Historia meant that they had learned to get along.

One week, that’s all he had to get through, and then he would return to London and his steady job as a stockbroker; back to safety and familiarity, where he could lose himself in the mundane and forget the depths of his abnormality and emptiness. In Erwin’s mind, the banalities of daily life were the only things he could hold onto, and that was how he had lived for the past five years of his life. What should happen if he broke free of his routine and was forced to reckon with the contents of his soul? He shuddered to think.

In this manner, he had agreed to join the trip to appease his wife, but he had no intention of indulging his base desires or opening the locked box of his heart. He hoped to keep the trip short and chaste.

* * *

Five days into their trip, Ymir and Historia walked arm-in-arm in the _Champs de Mars_ gardens, delicate parasols shielding their fair skin from the summer sun.

“Alright, I now share your concern about Erwin,” said Ymir, “five days here and he’s made every excuse possible to avoid our company; indeed, to avoid all company, let alone anything as raucous as a party.”

“Do you understand now, why I worry that he’s retreating into himself?”

“Yes, _mon amour_ , I do. Is there some reason, do you think? Some incident that might have caused this?”

Historia hesitated and looked around them. There were many others in the gardens, enjoying the sunlight, and she led Ymir to a secluded bench beneath a large tree where they might have more privacy.

“You will recall how I met Erwin some years ago? He had just returned from Rome, where he had lived for about a year, taking a sabbatical after Cambridge. I believe he wanted to spend more time studying the classics, his true passion. Only once has he spoken about what happened whilst he was there: he told me that he fell in love with an Italian man.”

Ymir gasped, “I just knew there was some sort of affair at the heart of this.”

“Well, it wasn’t a good match. You know how the Italians are: much more _liberal_ with their love than the English. Much more everything than the English, as a matter of fact,” the pair shared a smile, “which is completely unlike Erwin. He wants loyalty, companionship, dedication. He’s every bit the English gentleman, if only for his love of men. Anyway, it didn’t last, and I think Erwin was worse off afterwards.”

“That explains a lot.”

“You must promise never to tell him I’ve said this.”

“Of course,” said Ymir, “but why should all this, that happened years ago, be affecting him now?”

“I’m not sure, but then again, the minds of men are a curious thing. They hardly ever allow themselves to feel anything, so that it takes years to process something like heartbreak. Who knows what’s going on in my foolish husband’s brain?”

For a while, the lovers sat and watched the people enjoying the beautiful day.

“We have one last card to play,” said Ymir, “Tomorrow evening Monsieur Castellane has invited all of us to dinner: Erwin can’t possibly refuse.”

“Is that dear Henri?”

“Oh, yes. You remember the riotous evening we passed with him on our last visit?”

“I could never forget,” said Historia, a beautiful blush colouring her cheeks, “that man really knows how to make an evening _memorable._ ”

* * *

No sooner had Erwin accepted the invitation to dinner _chez Castellane,_ he became suspicious. Evening jackets would be sufficient, Ymir had said, which was his first warning. The fact that Monsieur Castellane was an ‘old friend’ of Ymir’s from her years living in Paris, was his second.

The Castellane house was a grand affair, an exquisite and solid work of architecture and richly decorated with paintings and chandeliers. It was a far cry from Erwin’s modest suburban home in London or the small apartment where they had been staying in Paris. Historia was radiant on his arm, draped in a delicate lace and velvet evening gown. Ymir walked close by, wearing black, as usual.

As soon as they entered, Erwin could tell that this would not be his definition of a dinner party. There were many more guests than he had anticipated, many of whom were dressed eccentrically in bright silks and feathers, many revealing much more skin that was appropriate, some men were wearing women’s clothing, some women were wearing men’s. Erwin flushed to see all sorts of couples and groups sitting draped over each other, stealing kisses in the corners, giggling over the clink of lurid-coloured drinks.

Ymir laughed at him, “Cat got your tongue, Mr Smith?”

“I had expected a formal dinner.”

“Who’s to say this isn’t a formal dinner, just more…Parisian? Consider this an authentic experience of the local culture,” purred the dark-haired women, taking his other arm. Together, with his wife and her lover at each side, the trio located their host in the main living room.

He was a handsome man, grey streaks threaded through his hair at the temple. They found him with his shirt buttons mostly undone, an arm wrapped around a fair, bright-eyed boy who might have been half his age.

“Ymir! _Ma chérie_!” cried Henri de Castellane, standing, and he proceeded to sweep Ymir into an embrace and chatter rapidly in French.

Finally, they broke apart so that Ymir could make introductions, “I’m sure you’ll remember my lover and partner, Historia. This is her husband, Erwin.”

Henri whistled and bit his lip, anticipating gossip, “how _interesting._ Have you broken free from the shackles of monogamy or is this a _lavender_ situation? I know how the English are, so narrow-minded.”

Erwin cleared his throat uncomfortably, but Historia saved him with a peal of laughter, “Oh Henri, I’d forgotten how direct you are. Why don’t you spare us the questions and show us where we can get a drink and some food?”

The man sighed, “Fine then, don’t tell me all the juicy details. I’ll just get Ymir to tell me later when you’re all too drunk to care!” He smiled wide, revealing a set of dimples. Henri snapped his fingers and a servant materialised carrying a silver tray laden with glasses. Erwin narrowed his eyes at the fluorescent green colour of the liquid. For a moment, the delicate fingers offering him the glass brushed against his own, and the servant’s piercing grey eyes met his.

“ _À votre santé_!” the man cried loudly as they raised their glasses. The dozen or so people in the room joined them, and Erwin knocked back the short drink.

“Careful there, _mon ami_ ,” said Henri, taking hold of Erwin’s elbow, “this spirit is extremely potent,” the man leaned in close, “too much of that and you might be in danger of forgetting yourself.”

Erwin swallowed, heart racing at just the touch on his elbow, and he breathed a sigh of relief as Henri stepped away and Historia and Ymir rescued him. They dragged him through the house, introducing him to old friends and pulling him into conversations.

As he watched his dearest friend, Historia, with Ymir and the ease with which they were themselves; as he watched this house full of people celebrating life and love, truly free, he could feel something deep within him start to rattle. It felt like the wind picking up before an oncoming storm, or the rumbling of the ground before a great avalanche, and his heart twisted with dread.

What should a gentleman do in such circumstances? Drink, of course.

Henri’s warning, rather than slowing him, only drove him to purposefully seek out the strange, green liquor, knowing it would get him to oblivion faster. The warning hadn’t been in vain. After only an hour, Erwin was looser than he had been in a long time. Never before had he become drunk so quickly. It was, indeed, an extremely potent spirit.

Another hour later, and Erwin found himself dozing comfortably on a long settee, watching with amusement the merriment and obscenities playing out before him. Historia and Ymir had disappeared with another woman some time ago, all three in a fit of giggles. With so many of the guests wrapped in an embrace or worse, Erwin found himself yearning for touch. It had been so long since he had touched another; since he had shared his body with another.

He was aware of the way his skin was buzzing, almost burning, for contact. Everything was soft, dulled by the intimate lamp-light and cosy swirl of cigarette smoke. Somewhere, someone was playing a fiddle, a slow, smooth melody that pulled at the fibres of his body.

Eventually, Erwin noticed the grey eyes fixed on him from across the room. Leaning against the doorframe, Henri’s servant stood smoking a cigarette. Erwin’s eyes followed the expanse of skin revealed at the man’s neck with every, tortuously long drag. In any other household, such a sight would be unthinkable: a man of lower class, a servant, smoking as if he was any other guest and not a member of staff. But this was no ordinary household, and they continued to stare at each other across the room.

The moment was broken but the slightest of movements. The servant gestured with his chin and his eyes towards the hallway, meeting Erwin’s gaze once more with a challenge written on his face, and then he disappeared.

Erwin stilled. It was an invitation.

If it wasn’t for the liquor, he might have talked himself out of it. But that’s not what happened. Erwin only paused for a few heartbeats, then heaved himself out of the comfort of the settee and followed the servant into the hallway.

The man was nowhere to be seen. The world blurred as he peered down the hallway in either direction, but he couldn’t spot any uniformed figures, only the giggling murmurs of lovers.

“Up here,” came a young man’s voice, thickly accented. Erwin found the servant at the top of the stairs. Wordlessly, he followed, stairs creaking beneath his polished black shoes.

He was led all the way to the top of the house via a narrow, hidden staircase until they reached the floor Erwin knew to be the servant’s quarters by the bare walls and wooden floor. The servant pulled him into a small room, and before Erwin knew it, he was sat on a narrow bed, the man straddling his lap and undoing his tie.

Erwin was mesmerised. The servant was direct, commanding, and beautiful and Erwin ran his hand through the man’s short, black hair and cupped his sharp jawline. Opening the front of his shirt, Erwin admired his slender neck and delicate clavicle.

“Tell me your name,” Erwin said, voice thick.

“Rivaille, sir. And yours?”

Erwin shivered at the use of the word ‘sir’ in such an intimate setting, “Please, call me Erwin.”

“Are you sure, sir? Are you sure that you aren’t aroused by a manservant taking you to bed and pleasuring you, _sir_?”

Erwin growled, startling himself, and Rivaille smiled, victorious, and pushed Erwin so that he was lying down. The man was unashamed as he stripped, savouring Erwin’s gaze, and his expression was wicked as he rutted their hips together, eyes darkening every time Erwin groaned.

Next, Rivaille attacked the buttons of Erwin’s formal shirt and Erwin sat up to shrug out of it, pulling Rivaille close so that their torsos were flush. He breathed in the man, the sweet scent of sweat and arousal, and pressed hungry kisses into the skin of his neck and along his shoulder. Rivaille arched beautifully to allow access, and Erwin felt himself straining, uncomfortably erect within the constraints of his trousers.

Rivaille wrapped his arms and legs around Erwin, pressing their hips together, seeking friction, and locked Erwin in a searing kiss. It was wet, and hot and needy and left Erwin gasping for more. The contact was delicious, skin against skin, another man’s body and embrace touching him everywhere, hands and lips roaming, and Erwin couldn’t get enough.

With a hard shove, Rivaille pressed Erwin back down into the bed again, biting playfully at the skin of his neck, before moving lower. Erwin shivered as the man’s breath raised goosebumps along his skin as his lips ghosted over Erwin’s torso before the man’s delicate fingers were undoing the fastenings of Erwin’s trousers. He gasped as his erection sprang free, and Rivaille stared at his cock with open hunger.

The man’s own trousers soon disappeared with Erwin’s, and they were tumbling against each other, almost fighting in their desperation to press themselves closer. Rivaille pulled painfully on Erwin’s hair and he growled with the beautiful ache of it, grasping Rivaille’s cock a little too hard in response.

“I have some oil,” said Rivaille against his lips, breathless and flushed, “do you want to fuck?”

Erwin paused, pulling back so there was some space between them. From the warmth in his cheeks, he was sure a deep blush would be visible, “I’ve never…”

“Really?” purred Rivaille, “handsome man like you? And with such a big cock?”

Erwin smiled, abashed.

“Hey,” said the other man in a gentle tone, “no pressure. I’d like to show you how pleasurable it can be, if you want. If not, there are other ways,” Rivaille raised an eyebrow and Erwin followed the pink of his tongue as he wet his lips. Erwin kissed him again.

Erwin’s body cried out his answer before Erwin could shape the words. Yes! Yes, he wanted that. He needed that warmth, that pressure, he’d longed for too long to know what that could feel like. The liquor had freed him from his crippling self-restraint and now he wanted everything.

Grinning, Rivaille reached beneath the bed and brought out a small jar, “One of the greatest pleasures of our persuasion is that we have a choice here,” said Rivaille, “what will it be, _sir?_ Do you want to fuck me? Or do you want to be fucked? Or if you have the stamina, why not go for both, one after the other?”

“I…I don’t know,” Rivaille laughed at his shyness and kissed him again until they were both breathless.

“Then I will choose. Turn around.”

Erwin did as he was told, resisting the urge to touch his straining cock, his body hot and jittery in anticipation. He heard the screw cap of the bottle opening, and then Rivaille hand was stroking his back gently. Erwin jumped which he felt the first, slick finger at his entrance. As Rivaille pushed inside, he pressed a kiss to Erwin’s spine.

It was unlike anything Erwin had felt before, he had never been breached like this, and all thoughts left his mind as Rivaille added another finger, curled them, and sparks suddenly spotted Erwin’s vision.

When the third finger was added, Erwin forgot how to breathe for a moment, “Are you ok?” came the silky voice from behind him. Erwin nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The fingers disappeared and then Rivaille wrapped himself around him, reaching up to kiss Erwin’s neck, his cheek, and mutter soothing, sensual nonsense to him as Erwin felt the man’s cock against the crack of his ass.

He couldn’t help the way his body locked up as Rivaille started pressing in, but the man was patient, slow, and kept whispering to him, making sure he was ok, helping him to relax as he pushed further and further in. Finally, when Rivaille was fully inside him, he lay against Erwin’s back, breathing heavily against the nape of his neck. Erwin felt so full, and more aroused than he had ever been in his life.

He choked when Rivaille started to move. It seemed like it should be too much, but it just kept building and building and soon he couldn’t keep quiet. Through it all Rivaille never stopped talking to him, thrusting long and slow and deep and shifting his hips slightly each time until, like a jolt of electricity, Erwin felt Rivaille’s cock press against a bundle of nerves deep inside.

After Rivaille reached around to stroke Erwin’s cock, it wasn’t long before Erwin came with a hoarse shout, everything going white as he was struck with the force of it. His whole body clenched around the thick cock buried inside him, and that only prolonged his orgasm somehow, something unbearably arousing about the hard length penetrating him.

He was worlds away, riding the high of the aftermath, as he felt Rivaille pull out and heard the man swear as he stroked himself to completion. Afterwards, they both collapsed in a sweaty, sticky mess on top of each other.

It was some time before Erwin came back down to earth. Rivaille was wrapped around him, their nakedness so warming, so beautiful, so delicious. Erwin threaded his fingers through the man’s hair, and the man leaned into the touch like a cat, content to be petted.

The warm embrace further loosened Erwin’s tongue, “Do you ever dream you had a friend? Someone to share your whole life with?”

“What do you mean?” Rivaille murmured, fingers tracing a line along Erwin’s chest.

“No matter, it’s nothing…” Erwin didn’t say any more.

Eventually, they both fell asleep.

* * *

Rivaille was gone in the morning, and Erwin’s suit had been folded neatly over the solitary chair in the small, sparse room. Head pounding furiously, he managed to dress and head downstairs, thankful not to run into anyone until after he’d left the servants quarters.

The grandfather clock chimed ten, and he found several of last night’s guests in a similar state as himself, nursing strong coffee. Rivaille, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen. A maid was serving small biscuits and water.

“Erwin!” cried Historia, hair unbound, “We thought you might have left last night, but I can see you stayed…” she trailed off, taking in his dishevelled appearance.

“It’s nothing,” said Erwin too quickly, “and I’d rather get going. I’ll see you back at the flat.” As soon as he left, he walked so fast he was practically sprinting, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Castellane mansion.

Historia watched him go, a smile on her lips. Ymir appeared soon after and joined her.

“I believe the party last night was a success,” Historia said.

“Really? You saw Erwin?”

“Oh yes, he practically ran out. If his hair and clothing is anything to go by, I’d say he did find himself a lover last night.”

“Finally,” sighed Ymir, and took a long sip of coffee as she pondered this information, “whoever with, I wonder?”

“I can’t say. I suppose that’ll be his mystery.”

“Do you think he’ll stop brooding, finally?”

“Hopefully. And if not, well, we tried.”

“Yes, we did. I hope that man knows just how lucky he is to have you as a wife.”

Historia smiled, and the two passed the rest of the morning speculating as to whom Erwin had taken to bed.

Maybe they would never know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now more! Thank you so much for all your encouraging comments :D

**_September 1910_ **

“It is a wonder I haven’t murdered any of those insolent children yet,” said Ymir as she unlaced her long woolen skirt and stepped out of it, “they moan, they whine, they make no effort whatsoever. I’d like to see them taken from their spoilt, cotton-wrapped mansions and raised properly in a real place of education, just to see the smug smiles wiped from their faces.”

Historia smiled as she set up her easel, used to such rants, “You’d rather see them raised by the Church as you were and subject to beatings for failing to remember their Latin?”

“Yes. Better they learn some discipline than remain snobs their whole lives. It’s likely they shall never learn true humility.”

Ymir untied the strings of her black shirt-waist* and Historia crossed the room to help her out of her undergarments. The corset-cover came off first, folded neatly over the oriental folding screen. As Ymir continued her list of grievances, Historia nodded and tutted at the expected intervals whilst helping Ymir out of her three sets of winter petticoats.

Historia unlaced Ymir’s corset, leaving Ymir to undo the clasps along the front. Soon, her stockings, drawers, and cotton chemise were gone, hanging with the rest of the ensemble over the back of the folding screen. She accepted Historia’s spare dressing gown gratefully and then sat at the vanity table so that Historia could unpin her hair.

“Men have it so much easier,” complained Ymir, “half as many layers, hardly any hair-care involved, and they can spend their whole life in just three sets of clothes.”

“I rather like you in men’s clothes. Remember that painting I did not long after we’d met? To this day, I think my dear cousin doesn’t know that it is you in that painting and not a man. It hangs, pride of place in her hallway.”

“I’ll never forget. I think you scarcely knew what to make of me then.”

“From the first moment, I thought you were the most beautiful creature I’d ever laid eyes on, my love. I could hardly believe my luck when you agreed to sit for me,” Historia placed a kiss on Ymir’s cheek and the two stared at their reflection in the wide, oval mirror before them. Historia began to brush Ymir’s long, dark, hair.

“Speaking of Paris, I received a letter today,” said Ymir, “Dear Henri passed away last week, a sudden stroke.”

“Monsieur Castellane? Oh goodness, that’s terrible news. A stroke, you say? Wasn’t he quite young?”

“Scarcely turned forty, but a lifetime of drink and drugs can’t have done good things for his health.”

“I am sorry to hear of his passing. Will there be a funeral?”

“It took place yesterday. Apparently, there’s been quite a ruckus. Henri wanted his estate to go to his paramour, a younger man named Jacques, whom I’m not sure you’ve met. Henri’s family was outraged. Jacques is a nobody, he hails from a family of petty merchants, besides which the nature of his relationship with Henri was no secret. It’s unclear what will happen.”

“I say, that is a tricky situation. I feel sorry for the paramour, he doesn’t stand a chance in court,” Historia massaged Ymir’s scalp with the balls of her fingertips, and then rubbed oil into the dry strands.

“Come,” continued Historia, drawing her lover and muse to her feet, “it’s late already, and I want to start this sketch.”

* * *

**_November 1910_ **

Rivaille’s friends jumped as the door to the apartment slammed open.

“Hey!” said Furlan, “This place is already falling apart without you causing more damage!”

He wasn’t wrong. Furlan and Isabel, who Rivaille affectionately referred to as his siblings despite lack of shared blood, lived in what was called a ‘shoebox’ apartment: an apartment so tiny and ramshackle it was hardly any better than a dog’s kennel.

“I can’t believe this!” cried Rivaille, throwing himself into the only chair, “No one in the city will hire me. That fucking _hag_ has worked some kind of magic and told every Upper-Class Madame that Monsieur Castellane’s ‘boys’ aren’t fit for work.”

“Really? No one? That woman has more pull than I thought. Besides which, half the manservants in Paris get buggered by their masters, it should hardly matter,” Furlan said.

“Yeah, well, she knows a lot of important people, apparently, and they fear her judgment.”

A head of messy, red-brown hair emerged out of the nest of blankets on the narrow bed. “That bitch can go to hell,” said Isabel.

Rivaille smiled and reached over to ruffle the girl’s hair, “you can say that again.”

“I guess if that’s really how it is, maybe it’s worth thinking about going back to tea serving,” said Furlan.

“I could do, but we’ll be right back where we started: hardly able to afford rent, let alone food and medicine.”

“I can always go without the medicine for a bit,” said Isabel.

“No,” said Rivaille and Furlan at the same time. Isabel was about to protest but she was silenced by the twin looks of finality from her brothers.

“We’ll find a way, like we always do. I’ll keep looking,” said Rivaille, and he forced himself to smile.

But when Isabel wasn’t looking, he shared a worried look with Furlan.

* * *

“I received a letter from Jacques,” said Ymir over breakfast.

“Jacques?”

“Henri de Castellane’s paramour.”

“Of course, I remember now. What happened to the estate in the end?”

“He lost, sadly. No match against the resources of the Castellane family. He says Henri’s Aunt has taken over the estate and she’s, well, very conservative and very religious. Absolutely detested Henri and his way of living. Jacques says she’s going to turn the mansion into a Christian school for girls.”

Historia nodded, sipping her tea, “Poor man. All of Henri’s dearest friends must be heartbroken to see his legacy erased.”

“Another safe haven for us, gone. The man was a beacon…” Ymir trailed off, eyes heavy with rage and sadness.

Historia gently took Ymir’s hand and squeezed it.

“I’m just so tired of watching this happen,” Ymir said quietly.

“I know. Please, if there’s any way I can help, do tell me.”

The maid came to clear their plates, but Historia didn’t let go of Ymir’s hand. Before leaving, the maid hovered by the table until she had the women’s attention, “Excuse me ma’am, but the Cook would like to know whether the Master will be taking his breakfast this morning.”

“Right, I shall go and see if he’s dressed, but tell Cook to prepare some just in case.”

As soon as the maid was gone, Historia rose and said to Ymir, “It’s tedious being understaffed, with only the Cook and the house maids. There’s no one appropriate who can attend to Erwin, and it seems I’m always being called to go and speak to him.”

“Why not hire someone?” Ymir asked.

“I have tried. But good servants are in high demand these days, what with all the new jobs in the factories and many people emigrating to the colonies. We shall have to make do.”

Ymir stopped her before she left.

“Wait, I’ve just had an idea.”

* * *

“England?” cried Furlan. Isabel was lost in laughter.

“Yes? So? It’s a job, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, and a nice salary, but it’s _England_ , Rivaille. And you’re _you_.”

“What? What’s so bad about England?”

“Rivaille, in England you can’t throw punches at people who don’t like who you fuck. They will throw you in prison for it. England is not like Paris.”

“Actually, I am capable of restraining myself.”

“Are you? This English Master, he might expect a proper valet, one that follows orders and sticks to the domestic hierarchy, all that shit. Are you going to be fine with that?”

“I still can’t picture it,” Isabel said between giggles, “ _Please, dear sir, let me wipe your arse for you,_ it’s so unlike you, Rivaille!”

Even Furlan cracked a wide smile at that. Soon, all three were laughing and they collapsed in a warm tangle on the narrow bed.

After a while, Rivaille sighed, “I’m going to accept the job. When the pay’s this good, I would do anything. There’s worse things than working in England.”

“You’ll write to us as often as you can?” Isabel asked.

“Of course, and you two take care of each other.”

“We will,” Furlan said. Rivaille pulled his two friends into a close embrace.

* * *

**_December 1910_ **

Since the visit to Paris over the summer, Erwin had started coaching boxing at a local club twice a week. It was easily the best part of his week, and it suited him. The physical ache of exercise was a simple pleasure, and he felt proud to watch the rough young men he trained channel their energies into the sport, rather than taking it out onto the streets. Fighting made sense to Erwin. Increasingly, nothing else did.

His encounter in Paris had opened a floodgate of memories and emotions he was completely unequipped to face. Erwin would rather face a physical enemy or an academic debate any day.

Work at the stock exchange was unchanging and unchallenging, and he could feel it slowly grinding at his soul like the heavy stone blocks of a grain mill, but at least it kept him occupied and his household supported. It was a distraction and a means of filling time, just like boxing.

If only he could distract his subconscious in the same way. He had no control over his nights, and the rattling of his soul was growing louder and wilder the harder he tried to ignore it. Of course, he said no word of this to anyone, not even Historia. What kind of gentleman reveals his humanity? That would be the end of England.

He was late home one Thursday evening, his usual evening at the boxing club, and was surprised to find the living room light still on. Historia sat reading in her dressing gown, fair hair falling in two loose braids.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me, you must be tired,” said Erwin.

“It’s not so late. I thought I should tell you that the new manservant arrived today. We’re still not quite a full household, but he’s agreed to undertake a valet-like role, also helping around the house and helping Cook with meals. It’s unorthodox, I know, but it’ll have to do.”

“Well, that sounds alright. These are modern times. Where did you find him? I thought servants were quite scarce these days.”

“Oh, they are, but Ymir has contacts, and he’s come up from Paris.”

Erwin paused momentarily, “Well then, I’m sure Ymir will be glad to have someone to speak French with.”

“I hope you find him suitable. I’ve asked him to run you a bath.”

“Thank you,” and they wished each other goodnight. Erwin climbed the stairs and approached his room. His body ached from exertion and his fingers were numb from the cold journey home.

Erwin pushed open the door to his bedroom and found the manservant there, leaving out a set of nightclothes over a chair. Erwin wondered if it might be tedious to have a servant again, having grown accustomed to dressing himself and looking after his own affairs, sometimes calling upon the maids for daily chores.

The servant straightened, hearing Erwin enter, and the short, dark-haired man turned to face him.

Erwin froze.

“ _Rivaille???”_

* * *

*A shirt-waist is the typical Edwardian era blouse worn domestically and by working women. They were almost always white or cream-coloured, so Ymir's choice of black would have been a little strange. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few different ways this story could go and I would love some ideas! So, some questions:  
> \- would anyone like to see more of Historia/Ymir (their back stories, how they fell inlove, some sexy times?)  
> \- does anyone have any silly drabble ideas for this new household and ensuing shenanigans?
> 
> Much love <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erwin is awkward and runs away. Ymir, Historia, and Rivaille get along just fine without him...

_“Rivaille???”_ Erwin exclaimed.

To Rivaille’s credit, his shock was only visible for a few seconds before he returned to a careful, blank expression, “Good evening, Sir.”

Erwin fumbled for words, at a complete loss for what to think or say. Instead, his manners kicked in and he said: “Historia has told me that you prepared a bath?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Rivaille. Erwin stared at the man, wondering if this was a horrible joke or a waking nightmare. He wore the simple ensemble worn by most English valets, without a tie as was customary. It was almost the same as the uniform Rivaille had worn the last time they had met… The ghost of obscene intimacy rushed through Erwin’s mind and he cleared his throat loudly.

“Right. Well, I shall take my bath then. I have no further need of you.”

“Very well, good night, sir.”

Erwin nodded, and it was all he could do not to collapse after the man had left the room. How had this happened? Had Rivaille done this on purpose; had he followed Erwin to his own home, his own country, just to torment him? Or was this an extremely cruel prank played by fate to punish Erwin for his obscenities?

The bathwater was piping hot, and though his body was relieved, he was far from relaxed, mind racing, heart straining. What should he do? What could he do? Did Historia know? Had she seen them together at Henri’s party? He didn’t think so: if she had known she would be unbearably teasing about it.

He could dismiss Rivaille. He could make up some excuse, though his mind failed to provide any suitable ones and he knew that Historia would see right through him. The reality was that they _were_ short of staff, and Erwin knew an extra servant would make the lives of his wife and of his staff much easier. No, if he dismissed Rivaille, it would only draw incur further questions that he wasn’t prepared to answer.

For now, he supposed the easiest course of action was to do nothing. He would simply have to lock away the memories of that one, terrible night and pretend it had never happened.

Sighing, he slipped further under the bathwater.

* * *

As soon as Rivaille left Erwin’s room he stood in the hallway, squeezed his eyes shut, and let his head thud against the wall, “Fuck.”

What were the odds? Erwin hadn’t told him his last name when Rivaille had taken him to bed. Actually, they hadn’t said much at all. He didn’t even know the man was married, let alone married to a friend of Henri’s.

Furlan had said he would regret his bad habit of fucking Henri’s guests, but Rivaille had only rolled his eyes, sure that no man of high social standing would dare admit to sleeping with a servant. Finally, his vice was coming back to bite him.

He suddenly had the strongest urge to laugh. Isabel and Furlan would find all of this hilarious. He supposed it rather was. What would Erwin do? Would he fire Rivaille, rather than face him? Would he fuck him? Whatever happened, Rivaille hoped he could keep the job, he needed the pay too badly.

Right now, he just really, really, needed a cigarette.

* * *

Historia couldn’t tell what Erwin thought of the new manservant, but then again Erwin had been out of the house a lot since Rivaille’s arrival. She was used to Erwin’s broods, long periods where he would come home late each evening and spend the weekends with his cousin in the country, hardly setting foot in the house for anything but sleep.

She hardly minded, Ymir’s twice-weekly visits were all the company she needed, but she had hoped Erwin would be over this by now or that he would at least have spoken to her about what was bothering him.

Whatever Erwin might think, Historia was very happy with Rivaille. Most of all, she was happy to have another confidant. Coming from Henri’s household, she knew something about what sort of man Rivaille was, and it was pleasant to have someone to practise her French with.

There was something about Rivaille that reminded her of Ymir. Something about the depth of his eyes which spoke of a heavy past, a deep understanding of the cruelties of the world.

One evening, she found him smoking in the garden. Hastily, he stamped out his cigarette and bowed.

“Don’t worry about that,” Historia said, “I don’t mind you smoking.”

She moved so she was standing in the glow of the lights spilling out of the living room windows, “Actually, I wanted to ask you if you’ve ever posed before?”

“Posed? My apologies, madame, but I don’t understand the meaning.”

“Posed for an artist to draw, I meant.”

“Ah,” Rivaille said, “I have, yes, some time ago, although the paintings were not very…orthodox. Not very traditional.”

It was hard to see in the dim light, but Historia thought Rivaille might be slightly flushed, “I’ve always thought the paintings that scandalise are the most exciting,” she said, eyes glittering. Rivaille grinned in return. Historia continued: “Would you sit for me? Would you let me paint you?”

“Of course, madame.”

“Excellent, I will let you know when I will need you.”

* * *

Rivaille hardly saw Erwin over the first few weeks, for which he was grateful. He liked Historia and he liked the house, and the work was easy enough without the Master to attend to. The Cook, Tommy, disliked him at first, but Rivaille thought it was probably due to the man’s general suspicion of the French rather than anything particular about Rivaille. The Cook’s attitude softened when he realised the extent of Rivaille’s cooking abilities, and that Rivaille had no qualms undertaking tasks which most valets might consider beneath them.

When he did see Erwin on weekday mornings and late at night, the man hardly said a word to him. It seemed he was determined to pretend nothing had ever happened between them, and that suited Rivaille just fine, so long as he could keep the job.

Christmas approached, and Erwin started returning home after work to change into formal evening wear. Then he would dash out to get to some party or other. One such evening, Rivaille was sent to Erwin’s room with Erwin’s tailcoat and formal shirt freshly pressed. He found Erwin in just his undergarments, and for a heartbeat too long, Rivaille stared at the man’s exposed arms.

“Your tailcoat and shirt, sir,” Rivaille said, hanging up the garments on the front of the wardrobe. Automatically he unbuttoned the shirt and took it off its hanger, turning to help Erwin into it.

Erwin stared at him for a moment, looking as if he was going to turn Rivaille away as usual. But instead, he turned around and let Rivaille slip the arms of the shirt onto him. Erwin shrugged so that the shirt settled into the right place, and Rivaille began to fasten the buttons, one by one, conscious of the smallest points of contact as his fingers whispered against Erwin’s chest. Intense blue eyes watched him.

Rivaille met his gaze.

The air was very thin and the room much warmer. Heat skittered along his arms. His hands were still pressed against Erwin’s stomach, frozen on the last button.

Erwin cleared his throat and broke the stare, face red, “I can do the rest, thank you Rivaille,” he stepped away.

Rivaille left, arms still tingling.

What the fuck was this man up to? _Bloody English,_ thought Rivaille.

* * *

“Rivaille this is Ymir, the love of my life,” said Historia in French, as naturally as if this was how she always introduced her lover. Ymir shot her an elegant smile full of warmth.

“A pleasure, madame,” said Rivaille, unphased by the sight before him.

Ymir lay, completely naked, on a low settee in the centre of the room.

“Please, call me Ymir,” said Ymir, unashamed, “now tell me, how does Historia’s household compare with Monsieur Castellane’s? I miss that man. I’m sure his household was quite an exciting place to live.”

“I believe it is inappropriate to share the secrets of a former employer.”

Ymir laughed, “quite right. Are you a Parisian yourself?”

“I grew up in Aix-en-Provence, but I moved to the city quite young.”

“Really? Then we have something in common. I was a girl when I moved there.”

“You were? Why did you move to Paris?” Rivaille asked, interest piqued.

“I’m sure you can guess,” Ymir said, with a wink.

Historia moved towards Ymir, clasped her hand and pressed it to her lips, “It’s good to see you two getting along. Now, down to business. Rivaille, I called you here because I want to paint more than just one person. I want to paint movement and touch. I want to show what intimacy feels like using colour. I know Ymir is happy to feature in such a series, but I wanted to know whether you would like to, as well. It would be ever so convenient for me if both my muses were regularly under the same roof.”

“Don’t worry, I promise to keep things purely professional,” Ymir purred, “you’re not my type anyway.”

“Nor are you, mine,” said Rivaille. He cocked an eyebrow, amused. Whoever said the English couldn’t be as entertaining as the French? This household was turning out to be almost as exciting as his previous employer’s.

“Well, I would be happy to help,” he said. Why not? He was not a self-conscious man, and it was hardly his first time lying naked before an artist.

“Thank you!” Historia cried, standing and wrapping her arms around him, knocking him off balance

He stripped methodically and joined Ymir on the settee. Historia directed them, asking them to pose in a range of positions: legs splayed over each other, Ymir’s arm over Rivaille’s shoulder, Ymir’s face buried in his hair.

Through it all, Ymir was completely comfortable with him, happy to chat at length with him about the nightmare brats she taught, about her favourite memories of Paris. In return, Rivaille forgot himself, and was soon telling her exactly what kind of employer Henri had been as if she was a friend and not a woman of much higher social standing. Ymir seemed to find Rivaille highly entertaining, and her halting laughter quickly grew familiar.

He was surprised to find how comfortable he was, in a way he had only ever felt with Isabel and Furlan.

Historia seemed to enjoy their comradery, and after a while, she stopped directing them, content to let them move freely. Her pencil scraped rapidly across paper, and she had charcoal smudges on her cheeks.

A knock on the door interrupted them, “Ma’am, the Master has returned home, I thought you should know.”

Historia poked her head out of her bedroom door and thanked the maid. Erwin appeared at the top of the stairs, cheeks flushed.

“Oh, goodness, would you look at the time! I hadn’t realised it was so late,” said Historia, “How was the Christmas party?”

“Rather dull, but the wine was excellent, and I believe I made a good impression with a business partner. We’re considering a merger.”

“That’s good to hear. You’ll be wanting your valet, I suppose, I’ll just go get him,” she moved towards her bedroom.

“That’s quite alright…wait,” Erwin stepped towards her, “why is he in your bedroom?”

“If you must know, I’m working on a new series and I need more than one model. How fortunate that Rivaille has experience posing for artists!”

Erwin looked faint, “Are you alright, dear?” Historia asked.

“I’m…fine. Too much wine, I think, nothing a good night’s rest won’t fix. Don’t worry about Rivaille. You can, uh, have him as long as you need,” Erwin cleared his throat, “Goodnight.”

And the man practically ran up the stairs to his own room. Historia gazed after him for a while. What was going on with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little story is too much fun! I am loving all the ideas y'all are suggesting, thank you all so much for the love <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for smut ;)
> 
> As for the frequency of chapter updates, what can I say, I'm on a roll (and may or may not have literally nothing else happening, thanks to rona).

**_January 1911  
_ **

The New Year came and went and with it, the usual challenges for London’s ancient infrastructure. The temperature dropped and the City heaved a collective sigh as pipes burst left, right, and centre. Amongst the casualties was Erwin’s boxing club.

With the evenings icy and dark, invitations to dinner dwindled and Erwin found himself with no choice but to spend more time at home.

Historia was delighted to see him more often at dinner, and the two could happily spend all evening discussing literature, art, and history. Erwin had studied classics at Cambridge, and whilst Historia preferred fiction, she was an attentive listener and besides which, Erwin could talk at length about his favourite topic: the integration of physical love between men into the social structure of the ancient Greeks.

At most dinner parties, he was careful never to mention this aspect of the classics. During his studies, the dean at Cambridge had only briefly alluded to it as the ‘unspeakable vice of the Greeks’, and Erwin had swallowed his anger and vowed to keep his essays to himself.

The only other person he had shared his ideas with was Claudio when Erwin had lived in Rome, but as soon as the man entered his thoughts, Erwin was quick to bury them.

All in all, his home was the same as it had been over the last few years. Ymir joined them twice weekly on the evenings proceeding her free mornings, Erwin read in the evenings, and Historia painted.

The only real difference was Rivaille.

For the life of him, Erwin couldn’t ignore the man. Every time Rivaille was in the room, Erwin’s eyes clung to him and he could hardly draw them away. They hardly spoke, Erwin not trusting himself, but it was the natural course of Rivaille’s duties to assist him with his clothes and personal grooming.

It was driving Erwin steadily insane, the small touches, the flutter of his eyelashes, the shape of Rivaille’s neck and jaw, the smell of the man.

It was almost unbearable, and each night when Rivaille came to run him a bath and take away his day clothes for laundering, he thought he might break his resolve and reach out and touch the man, but somehow, he never did.

The man would be the death of him, and Erwin wasn’t sure how much longer his resolve would last.

* * *

Rivaille understood physical desire. He’d seen the way that men could look at him when they wanted him, and sometimes, when Rivaille returned that desire, he would simply look at them in return, and then they would go to bed. It had never been complicated.

But Erwin was definitely complicated.

The man’s eyes followed him, expression hungry, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t fucked before. He must know that Rivaille also wanted him, so why didn’t he make a move? He wanted to talk to Furlan and Isabel, they might understand better what was going on, but Rivaille didn’t dare mention that sort of thing in his letters in case they were read by other eyes.

Eventually, he snapped. Screw being a good servant, being humble and invisible. If Erwin was going to stare at him like that and do nothing about it, Rivaille was going to do everything he could to provoke him. He was tired of this strange restraint and it wasn’t Rivaille’s style. No, Rivaille wasn’t one to hide.

He started by leaving his top button undone. A small step, but from the way Erwin’s eyes flickered to the hint of skin at Rivaille’s clavicle, it didn’t go unnoticed.

When he came to collect Erwin’s clothes at night, Erwin’s eyes glued to him as usual, he started staring back until Erwin was forced to look away, face red.

He started making up tasks that needed doing in Erwin’s study in the evenings. Dusting shelves and sweeping the floor, tasks usually carried out by the maids during the day. Rivaille was sure to make a show of stretching to reach the top shelf and bending low to get the dust off the lowest.

Not only was Erwin staring, but his mouth was open, and his skin flushed. Rivaille held his gaze and smiled, victorious.

Erwin cleared his throat, and resolutely went back to the heavy tome he was reading. Rivaille stood a while longer and stared. Erwin wore small, circular spectacles when he was reading, and Rivaille thought they suited him immensely. He wondered whether Erwin ever thought about fucking him on this desk, which was a heavy, dark-wood antique, probably a valuable family heirloom. The thought of dirtying it sent a thrill up Rivaille’s spine.

Erwin’s eyes flickered back up to him, but he still did nothing. Rivaille relented and left the man in peace for the rest of the evening.

* * *

“I can’t believe it! Your godmother was true to her word. This is such a beautiful apartment!” Ymir wrapped her arms around Historia and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’m glad you like it, my love, even though it’s small and modest. Now that you’re no longer living in that dreadful home for working women, I can come and stay with you in the week. This can be _our_ place, just for the two of us.”

“It’s more than I could ever have hoped for,” Ymir had tears in her eyes as she smiled. She spun Historia around, giggling with glee like a child, “And what does Erwin think?”

“He’s happy for us. Happy that you’re out of that dreadful home, anyway, and that I can come and visit you more often. I think he’s sad to lose the company though.”

“It’ll hardly be any different, I’ll still come up on my usual nights and the three of us can have dinner as we usually do. You’ll just be here more. Besides, sometimes you hardly see him at home for weeks so he can get used to being alone at home for a change.”

“Yes, yes he can.”

Historia wrapped her arms around Ymir’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.

“Now, how about we settle in? It’s not really _our_ place until we’ve _enjoyed_ ourselves in it…” Historia murmured into Ymir’s ear.

“I like the sound of that,” replied Ymir, slipping into French.

She dragged Historia by the hand to the bedroom and Ymir looped an arm around her waist, pressing their lips together, other hand cupping the nape of Historia’s neck, careful of the pins holding up her hair. Ymir pushed her so that her back was flush against the wall and slowly ran her lips along the shell of her ear. Historia shivered, smiling.

Ymir took both her hands and held them above Historia’s head, and Historia stared at her, mouth wet and open, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Ymir eyes were dark as she crashed their lips together again and she let go of Historia’s wrists so that she could hike up her skirts and petticoats, cold fingers leaving goosebumps as they finally met the skin of Historia’s inner thigh through the gap in her open drawers.

Historia let out a gasp at the contact, and Ymir wrapped her other arm around the woman’s waist to keep her from falling as Ymir’s fingers found the wet heat between Historia’s legs. Ymir loved having her lover like this, still fully clothed, against a wall. It would bring her a possessive thrill when she would see Historia wearing the same outfit in public during the day, and Ymir would remember what Historia looked like when she was fucked-out, trembling and gorgeous as Ymir took her apart.

Ymir moved her fingers in slow circles against Historia’s wet sex, centering the rhythm around the firm nib of her clitoris and timing each lazy circle with a rough scrape of teeth at Historia’s neck.

Soon, the woman was a trembling mess, and Ymir could tell that she was close, boneless as she was and relying on Ymir’s other arm to support her. She increased the pace and captured Historia’s lips with her own and then Historia was crying out, head thrown back and thighs clamping together, trapping Ymir’s hand.

It took her a while to recover, and through it all Ymir held her and smiled into her neck.

“You like taking advantage of open drawers, don’t you?” Historia said against Ymir’s lips.

“What gave me away?”

Historia smiled, kissing her again, “Now you, get out of your clothes and let me touch you.”

Ymir grinned.

* * *

With Historia gone three nights of the week, Erwin was alone in the house more often and it became harder and harder to ignore Rivaille’s tantalising distractions. If he had been a temptation before, now was something else entirely.

Erwin didn’t know what the man was up to, but it seemed like he was set on tempting Erwin in every way he could. More often than not, whenever Erwin would stare, Rivaille would stare back, until Erwin was forced to look away, face flushed and heart racing. Worse was how the man would find any excuse to bend over, and met with the sight of the man’s backside, Erwin would shiver and try and suppress the memory of skin against skin.

One night when Historia was at her London flat with Ymir, Rivaille came to take his clothes as usual. He was early, and Erwin was still unbuttoning his shirt.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Rivaille.”

“Let me help you with that, sir,” Rivaille said, and before Erwin could stop him the man’s hands were on his buttons. Rivaille let his hands linger on Erwin’s chest.

Erwin held his breath. Rivaille looked up at him, and Erwin watched his pupils dilate.

Rivaille licked his lips. His gaze settled on Erwin’s mouth. There was hardly any distance between them.

With an enormous strength of will, Erwin stepped away.

Rivaille gave an exasperated sigh, and stepped closer, annoyance written across his face, “Why don’t you touch me? You stare and you stare, but you don’t make a single move. You said to call you Erwin, but now you hardly speak to me, even when you have to. So, why? I don’t understand you.”

Erwin swallowed and felt something snap, “Is that what your other masters have done? They want you, so they touch you. The take, just because they can?”

Rivaille frowned, “What does this have to do with my previous masters?”

“Everything to do with them, Rivaille. You are a man in my employ. If you were a maid, and I were a normal man interested in women, I still wouldn’t touch you. It would be a horrible abuse of power, I can’t just… That would be wrong.”

Rivaille’s frown turned into an expression of incredulity and amusement, “Oh. You won’t touch me because your _morals_ say otherwise, that is unexpected. But you touched me before. In Paris. You came to bed with me.”

“That was different,” Erwin said with a sigh, “I assumed I’d never see you again. I was drunk and craving company. You were your own man, and you took me to bed because you wanted to, or I certainly hope so.”

“You speak as if I were your possession. I’m still my own man, and if I still wanted to take you to bed, would you let me?”

Erwin's eyes were dark and wide, but still, he shook his head, “You’re my employee. I pay your wage. You sleep under my roof. I have a responsibility here to maintain a professional relationship.”

Rivaille stepped back, giving the man some space. At that point, he should have left it. He should have ended the conversation and never mentioned it again. But something stopped him. Looking at Erwin, he understood with startling clarity that the man was lonely, that the man was torturing himself with his own restraint.

“Erwin,” Rivaille said, and Erwin startled at the sound of his own name, “there is no shame in desire. Whatever false rules society and class might place on us; we are all human. We have the same needs. I understand your moral justifications but know that I also want you. It’s not an abuse of power when I want your touch as much as you want mine.”

Erwin's gaze flickered over his face as if reading him. Erwin drew closer so that there was hardly a slither of space between them, “you want me?” his voice was low and deep, and it affected Rivaille instantly.

“Yes. Are you finally going to take me to bed?”

The weight of Erwin’s stare as he deliberated was so intense, Rivaille almost looked away. But then he sighed, muttered, “to Hell with it,” and closed the distance between their lips.

Rivaille had to strain on his toes to reach, wrapping his arms around Erwin’s neck to pull him down. Two months of restraint, of longing, of teasing all came pouring out in the desperation of Erwin’s touch and Rivaille was thrilled by the force with which Erwin bodily picked him up and carried him to his bed.

“Shoes?” Rivaille gasped between kisses. Erwin cursed, standing just long enough to toe off his shoes and trousers whilst Rivaille did the same.

Before Rivaille could take off his shirt, Erwin stopped him, “Let me,” pushing Rivaille to sit on the bed. Erwin knelt before him, undoing the buttons of his shirt and pressing kisses to the skin exposed by each one. It was a strange and arousing reversal of their usual roles. Rivaille wrapped his legs around the man, drawing him closer, and by the time they were in their undergarments they were both fully hard.

The tone changed again, and they tore off each other’s undervest and drawers in a frenzy, desperate for bodily contact, Erwin groaning as they struggled against each other in a play-fight until Erwin rolled them both over and had Rivaille pinned beneath him on the bed. Erwin kissed him, teeth scraping against his bottom lip and Rivaille arched into it, desperate.

Erwin pressed him down onto the bed with his forearm and looked at him hungrily as if he was about to devour him. Rivaille’s cock twitched.

Erwin moved down Rivaille’s body until his breath skirted along his hipbone and Rivaille thrust upward, seeking contact. Erwin’s eyes were victorious as he licked a long stripe up Rivaille’s cock, rewarded with a moan. Erwin was persistent, attentive, and determined.

As he took Rivaille’s cock into his mouth, his fingers sought out the other weak spots on his body: the soft skin under his armpit, the delicate bud of his nipple, his inner thighs. Rivaille gasped with each sensation, and then Erwin sank all the way down, and Rivaille was startled and incredibly aroused to find out that the man could take all of him to the base.

He really lost it when he realised the man was stroking himself, aroused just to have Rivaille in his mouth. With a gasped word of warning, Rivaille came, Erwin pulling off just in time. He lay, riding the high of the aftermath, only belatedly realising that Erwin had also reached his peak.

“You know, they told me before I came here that the English make terrible lovers, but I think you just proved them wrong.”

Erwin smiled, hair mussed and skin slick with sweat, and pulled him into another lazy kiss. They lay tangled together for a while before Rivaille extricated himself and put on his rumpled uniform.

“Well, uh…good night, sir.”

Erwin was still smiling, still naked on his bed, “Good night, Rivaille.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favourite moments of 'Maurice' is the point when both Maurice and his lover, Alec, cancel their plans, put their lives aside and say 'to Hell with it'. That's how it starts. That's how all Love starts, is it not?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smut, some fluffy drabbles, and bonding moments between Historia and Erwin.

**_February 1911_ **

Historia didn’t know what had changed, but Erwin’s mood seemed to lift. As far as she knew, nothing significant had happened in his Life, but then again, she never knew what triggers brought on his moods.

One Saturday as she was clearing up her paints in her make-shift studio (an unused, spare bedroom), she turned to find Erwin hovering in the doorway.

“I didn’t see you there, Erwin. Why don’t you come in and have a look at what I’ve been working on?”

Erwin walked into the room and spent some time looking at the painting still drying on the easel. It was a dynamic image of two familiar, dark-haired figures sprawled close together, both naked and laughing, colours brighter than life, lines loose and undefined as if the figures were still moving.

Erwin stood absorbing it for a long time, the colours seeming to reach into him and pluck at his very emotions, “Historia, I don’t even have the words to describe this! You need to show this to the World. You need to hold your own exhibition. And these, your subjects, it’s Rivaille and Ymir, isn’t it?”

She smiled, flattered and nervous with his praise, “Yes, it is. Do you see why I wanted him to pose for me?”

“I do. He is truly beautiful,” Erwin said, without thinking, staring at the carefree laughter so skilfully woven through paint. Erwin stilled, realising what he had just said and turned to find Historia raising an eyebrow in interest, “why don’t you show me what else you’re working on,” Erwin said, a little too quickly.

Historia’s amused expression didn’t change, but she did show him the rest of her sketches. She had plans for a series based on the studies of Ymir and Rivaille, and she thought each piece might be tinted in a different colour to reflect different emotions.

“This is some of the most beautiful art I’ve ever seen. Really. You’ll be the next Monet yet.”

Historia blushed, “Thank you, Erwin. That means a lot, it does. Hopefully one day I can exhibit them under my own name, without having to pretend to be a man.”

“I hope you know that I will do whatever I can to support you. Whatever you need to get there.”

Her smile deepened, “You’re a good friend, Erwin.”

It was Erwin’s turn to smile, self-consciously. They hugged, and Erwin left to get ready for their evening.

* * *

It was Isabel’s birthday, and Rivaille couldn’t be there. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that at least she had the medicine she needed and that Furlan was with her, but it didn’t stop him missing them.

When he’d worked for Monsieur Castellane, he had lived inside the man’s house with the rest of the staff, but he could still spend his free days with his friends. Now, he didn’t know when he would see them again. In all their years together, they’d never been apart like this, and it felt as though he was missing a part of himself.

Maybe that was why he had been so keen to seek out Erwin’s touch. He craved company and contact, and this time spent in England was the longest he had gone without it.

He wrote his friends a letter, and silently murmured a prayer to a God he didn’t believe in that Isabel would be alright this year.

* * *

Erwin and Historia were both tired when they returned from the Opera. As expected, it had been long, tiresome, and impossible to understand. Neither were admirers of the art, but Erwin’s cousin had invited them, and he had been insistent.

Historia went straight to bed, but Erwin went to his study and rang the bell for help lighting the fire. It was late, and Erwin was unsurprised when Rivaille appeared instead of the maid. Erwin poured himself a whiskey and settled into his high-backed armchair as Rivaille got the fire going.

The flickering, orange flames flattered Rivaille’s complexion and Erwin thought again about Historia’s painting. Rivaille stared into the fire for a while, still squatting beside it. Something was on his mind, and Erwin wondered what it was. His expression was distant, and his eyes were weary.

Shaking himself, Rivaille stood, expression unreadable as he moved wordlessly towards Erwin.

It had been two weeks since they had become intimate, and their encounters had all been rushed and heated in the quiet of Erwin’s bedroom; all of them forgotten in the morning; both acting as if nothing had happened. They hadn’t touched each other with Historia in the house, either. As Rivaille stood before him, intention clear, Erwin felt a moment of uncertainty. Was this new territory? Historia was upstairs and Erwin’s study felt somehow more public than his bedroom, even though he knew that no one would disturb them.

Very slowly, Rivaille took the whiskey glass from Erwin’s hand and drank the remaining contents. Erwin’s eyes followed the movement of the man’s throat as he swallowed. The empty glass was placed on the mantlepiece with a clink, and Rivaille was facing him again, looming over him. Gently, the man pressed a hand into Erwin’s chest to move him backward, further into the armchair.

The fire crackled, but otherwise, the night was silent, and everything was warm and hazy in the soft glow of the flames. Rivaille was quiet as he carefully climbed onto Erwin’s lap, giving Erwin plenty of time to stop him, but Erwin said nothing, hardly able to breathe, eyes glued to Rivaille’s face.

Rivaille withdrew something small from his pocket and placed it in Erwin’s hand: it was a small glass bottle. His lips hovered against Erwin’s, eyes searching for an answer and Erwin wrapped an arm around him to pull him closer, the press of his lips and tongue saying _yes, yes, yes._

Rivaille pressed close so they were flush against each other, kissing Erwin as if he wanted to drown himself in it whilst Erwin’s hands gripped Rivaille’s ass. Rivaille pulled away a little, unwinding his arms from Erwin’s neck so that he could unscrew the jar.

The oil was slick and viscous as Erwin coated his fingers with it, and Rivaille climbed off his lap to remove his trousers and drawers. They kissed as Rivaille settled over Erwin again, and Erwin’s hand wrapped around Rivaille’s spine as the other reached lower.

The first press of Erwin’s finger breaching him caused Rivaille to hiss, arms tightening around Erwin’s neck. Rivaille’s weight was firm and warm against him as Erwin eventually added a second finger, overwhelmed by how tight and hot the man was.

Rivaille’s breaths came sharp and fast against Erwin’s ear as Erwin added a third finger and started to move them, and he could feel the man mouthing silent whispers into the skin of his neck, hips bucking against the intrusion of Erwin’s hand.

Erwin lightly pushed Rivaille so that he could reach between them an unbutton his uncomfortable trousers. Erwin’s cock sprang free, and Rivaille was already there with the oil, hand hot and wet around Erwin’s cock so that he couldn’t help but gasp.

Rivaille lined himself up and pressed his face into Erwin’s neck, but Erwin stopped him and gripped his jaw, “Look at me,” Erwin whispered.

Holding his gaze, Rivaille sank down onto his cock. It was incredibly intense, and Erwin drank in ever flicker of emotion in the other man’s eyes as his breathing became laboured. Overwhelmed, Erwin moved his hand to the back of Rivaille’s neck and pressed their foreheads together as his other hand settled on Rivaille’s hip as they began to move against each other. Each slow, torturous slide of Rivaille’s hot, tight body around him was almost more than he could bear, and Erwin squeezed his eyes together to try and hold on.

He didn’t know how long they spent like that. He hadn’t known what it was like to be so close to someone, to be _inside_ someone, and he never wanted it to end. Rivaille reached his climax before Erwin, and he watched the man in awe as he shuddered and spasmed, drinking in his every quiver.

Rivaille went lax in his arms as Erwin grabbed his hips, pumping up into his body with three short, sharp thrusts before orgasming with a groan, biting down hard into Rivaille’s neck with the force of it.

Afterwards, they curled up against each other, limp and sleepy, and Erwin found himself carding his hands through Rivaille’s hair, chest warm and tight. It was a while before they finally separated, and neither could look at the other as they re-dressed and went to their separate beds.

Erwin’s chest remained warm long after Rivaille left him.

* * *

The next morning, Erwin could hardly look at Historia over breakfast, certain she must know. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying last night’s events and he couldn’t for the life of him get them to stop. The newspaper lay open beside his cup of tea and he re-read the same sentence five times without processing it.

When he did steal a glance at his wife, he found her smiling into her teacup, watching him. He suddenly became very engrossed in his newspaper.

She left the table before he did, and his heartbeat faster when he heard her greet Rivaille good morning in the hallway. The door opened, and there was Rivaille to take away Erwin’s empty plates. Erwin was careful not to look him in the eye as he approached, certain that would only spur on his explicit thoughts. He took a long swig of the remains of his tea as Rivaille made a show of leaning over him to gather up his plates.

The stretch shifted Rivaille’s collar, revealing the expanse of his neck. Erwin stilled. The empty teacup fell from his hand.

“Sir?” Rivaille asked.

“Uh…you might want to, uh, wear your collar higher,” Erwin couldn’t look him in the eye, his face burning.

Rivaille’s hand rose to his neck and he cursed under his breath as he fled from the room towards the washroom.

Erwin groaned, hiding his face in his arms like a schoolboy, and hoped to God that Historia hadn’t seen the tell-tale, dark bruise colouring Rivaille’s skin,

* * *

Historia found Rivaille that evening during his usual smoking break in the garden. As she approached, he could already guess what she wanted to discuss.

“Nice evening, tonight. Not so cold,” she started.

“The days are finally starting to get longer. Maybe we might actually see some sunlight at some point.”

“It’s not England without a persistent drizzle,” Historia said, smiling. “So, what I really wanted to ask was…Well. I’ll be direct. Are you sleeping with Erwin?”

Rivaille didn’t reply immediately, which was answer enough.

She nodded, “I’ll take that as a yes. All I can say is…thank goodness.”

“ _Pardon?”_ Rivaille said, almost dropping his cigarette.

“I thought his stubbornness would eat him alive. Ymir and I have long thought what he really needed was to take a lover. Is he… is he good to you?”

Rivaille raised an eyebrow “Yes. He’s, uh, really good…” he trailed off, thinking about last night.

“Oh, you mean…that wasn’t entirely what I was asking, but it’s good to know that he’s…good…at that,” Historia blushed. Rivaille was thoroughly entertained, “I was wondering more if he treated you right. I hope you don’t feel under any pressure or anything…”

“On the contrary, I had to convince him he wouldn’t be abusing his power if he let me take him to bed. Are you telling me you’ve never been to bed with him? How does this marriage of yours work anyway?”

“It's mostly for appearances. We do care for each other, but I’ve never felt any desire to be…intimate with a man whilst he has never felt a desire to be intimate with women so…yes. Besides, my heart belonged to Ymir well before I married Erwin.”

Rivaille pondered this for a while.

“So, you have to hide who you are, and the marriage is just to stop people talking?” he finished his cigarette and ground the stub into the ground beneath his shoe.

“Yes, that’s exactly it.”

“I hate that you have to hide. What’s the point in living if you have to hide all that you are?

Historia sighed, “we don’t have a choice in this country Rivaille. If we were honest with our families and with society, they would cut us out of their lives and refuse to have anything to do with us. We would have to emigrate if we ever wanted to live openly, and I can’t help it, Rivaille, I still love my family and want them in my life, even if I know they wouldn’t accept me if they knew.”

Rivaille nodded, gazing out into the night.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you now. Good night,” said Historia.

“Good night.”

* * *

**_March 1911_ **

The front door slammed open and Historia cursed colourfully under her breath in quite an unladylike manner. The maid was already running up to greet her, expression worried.

“Where is she?” asked Historia, unpinning her large hat.

“Already in the living room, ma’am.”

“Lord above. Tell Cook we’ll eat in an hour. And Erwin?”

The maid’s cheeks coloured, “I knocked, ma’am, but I think he’s, um, busy.”

Historia paused, hat in hand, and muttered another colourful curse. She smoothed out her skirts, handed her coat and hat to the maid, tried to look like she hadn’t just run from the station, and entered the living room.

“Historia, my darling! When I arrived to find you weren’t here, I thought for a spell that you’d forgotten about my visit.”

“Mother, dearest, of course not, how could I possibly forget?” She had completely forgotten. She kissed her mother on the cheek, “I was just running an errand and it took somewhat longer than expected, you must forgive me.”

An hour ago, she had just arrived at her London flat for her usual evening with Ymir when Ymir had reminded her about the dinner. It was a miracle she had made it back as fast as she had.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long?” Historia said, her mother’s hands still clasped around her own.

“Oh no, not at all. Only around ten minutes.”

“Excellent, I must apologise again. Now, let me just see about Erwin, I’m sure he’s completely forgotten and has taken a nap after coming home from work. He’s quite fond of a little rest after working all day.” A complete lie. Erwin hated sleeping during the day, but she couldn’t exactly tell her mother the truth, could she?

“Perfectly understandable.”

Historia smiled, kissing her mother on the cheek before leaving the living room and closing the door behind her, breathing out a sigh of relief. She raced up the stairs as fast as her skirts would allow, until she was standing in front of Erwin’s bedroom.

She knocked, paused, and thought she heard a thud inside. There was no reply, but from the light shining under the door, she knew it couldn’t be empty. Historia braced herself and opened the door.

Erwin and Rivaille snapped apart. Both were half-dressed, hair ravaged, and they raced to cover themselves. Historia was frozen, staring at them, for about a half-minute before her mouth caught up with her brain.

“Erwin, darling,” she said, as if he had only been reading a book and not about to fuck his valet, “my mother is here for dinner. It completely slipped my mind and I raced back from the City as fast as I could. I can see it, uh, also slipped your mind. I’ll just leave you to…”

“Right, yes, I’ll be right down,” Erwin said, face pink, looking anywhere but at her.

She closed the door behind her, took a moment to compose herself and swallow her laughter, and then went back down to deal with her mother.

* * *

“How is work, Erwin?” said Historia’s mother politely over starters.

“Same old, same old. Although I am surprised to see that Turner & Sons is doing so well, I don’t think anyone could have guessed how quickly their business would take off. Returns are up to almost 13%, would you believe it?”

“Goodness, that is surprising. And you, my dear Historia, when am I ever going to see the paintings that you’re working on?”

Historia shared a brief look with Erwin, and he hid a small smile in his next spoonful of soup, “Oh mother, you know how terribly shy I am about my work. Unless it is truly perfect, I don’t want to show anyone.”

“My darling, you shouldn’t underestimate yourself! Why, those works you did when you spent that year in Paris with your godmother, those beautiful, colourful paintings of nature and of flowers, those were some lovely pieces,” her mother said, as if complementing a child on a singing performance, “how elegant and ladylike they were. I still have friends come over and ask when they can have one of your paintings for their own homes.”

“You know me so well, mother,” Historia said, with the slightest edge in her voice that only Erwin noticed, “how I love to paint nice, pretty scenes of nature.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Erwin sensed a presence enter the room. Wordless and invisible, Rivaille expertly refilled their wine glasses. Erwin couldn’t help but shoot a glance his way and swallowed his smile when Rivaille winked at him.

“And is there any _other_ news from you both?” asked Historia’s mother, oblivious to Rivaille’s existence, “Can I expect to be a grandmother sometime soon?”

Rivaille stilled for the briefest moment, and then quickly left the room.

“No, no luck yet. But you know how it is, some couples are never blessed.”

“Ah, that’s quite alright dear, I’m sure your luck will change soon,” Historia’s mother placed a hand on hers to reassure her. Erwin looked away. They had been married for three years, and their families were starting to ask. Historia wasn’t wrong, many couples were never blessed. Erwin just hoped their families would leave it at that.

* * *

“ _No!!!???”_ Ymir gasped, “ _the valet???_ You mean…. _Rivaille?_ Oh, this is juicy.”

“Isn’t it?” said Historia. The two were curled up on the settee in the living room of Erwin’s house. It was a few weeks since Historia had found out, but she’d only just managed to ask her husband if she could tell Ymir.

“ _Fascinating,_ ” said Ymir, “I guess I’m not sure what I expected his type to be, but I understand. Rivaille is very pretty, isn’t he? Is he here? I must speak to him.”

“Yes, he is, helping Cook clean up dinner, I expect.”

“Oh, I want to ask him _so_ many questions.”

Historia laughed, “Goodness, please don’t overwhelm the poor man.”

“Erwin and Rivaille, well this _is_ fun…” Ymir trailed off, and Historia didn’t dare ask what, exactly, her lover was imagining. Suddenly, Ymir stilled, “ _Shit_ , Historia, I just had a thought.”

“Yes?”

“Rivaille…he must have been there when we went to Henri’s party with Erwin, when we were last in Paris.”

Historia pondered this, “Yes, I suppose he must have been, he was working for Monsieur Castellane at the time, why…”

Ymir was looking at her with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, but Historia still didn’t understand.

“Uh, you’re so slow on the uptake sometimes. What I’m saying is, what if _Rivaille_ was the one Erwin slept with that night?”

Historia froze, “Heavens. What are the odds…I guess it’s not impossible…”

“I just _have_ to know. I’m going to ask Rivaille,” said Ymir, standing, a devilish glee in her eyes.

“What did I just say about overwhelming him?” Historia cried, but too late, Ymir had already disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

* * *

Historia heard Ymir’s distinctive, snorting laughter from the garden in between extremely impolite, rapid-fire French. Two faces flared into existence in the darkness as a match was lit, and smoked curled up into the night from twin cigarettes.

The front door clicked open and shut, and shortly after, heavy footsteps padded toward her. Erwin settled beside her, gazing out at the giggling figures in the dark garden.

“Those two get along far too well,” said Erwin.

“It’s rather sweet really. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I just dread to think what sort of secrets they’re spilling…” said Erwin.

Historia laughed, and wrapped her arm around Erwin’s, resting her head on his arm.

“I’ve been meaning to ask about you and Rivaille. Is it just some fun for you, or something more?”

Erwin was silent for a while, formulating his words. The silence was punctuated by Ymir’s laughter through the window.

“I…we haven’t talked about anything like that, I mean…I don’t know.”

Historia nodded, and squeezed his arm gently, “well, that’s quite alright. Matters of the heart are rarely simple.”

“Matters of the heart, yes…” Erwin said, and he fell silent again, lost in thought. Historia wondered what was going through his head, but she sensed it was better not to ask. He would figure it out eventually.

She couldn’t have known how her words would settle into his mind over the next few days, so that it was all he could think about: _matters of the heart_ , she had said.

Erwin started to worry that whatever he and Rivaille were doing was moving into dangerous territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a backstory chapter, so stay tuned!
> 
> How am I doing? Please do let me know, your comments are so warming and I really appreciate them so much <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory time! I quickly realised that Ymir and Historia's story could be a whole novel-length story in its own right, so I've kept their backstory pretty concise, giving a taste but not everything. Enjoy!

**_April 1911_ **

April arrived with the usual flurry of spring showers and vibrant daffodils. Whilst the countryside was a dazzling display of verdant greens, the city became a hazard of slippery mud threatening to ruin long skirts.

The day marking Historia and Erwin’s three-year anniversary was a Thursday but celebrations were held the following Saturday so that both families could visit for lunch. In attendance were Historia’s mother, her brother and his wife, Erwin’s mother, his two sisters, their husbands, and children. The house seemed to strain at the seams to accommodate them all, and the air reverberated with more noise than it had in months.

Rivaille and the maids were busy ferrying drinks and food in and out of the dining room. Plates clinked as they were carried precariously, glasses glittered as grey daylight filtered through, casting coloured fractals over the walls.

Finally, the luncheon was over, and Erwin retired with the men to his study for whiskey and a lengthily chat about politics and Worldly matters. Historia envied him, as she was stuck with the ladies and children in the living room and knew she would inevitably be pestered about having her own once again.

However, Erwin’s niece saved her. She was a pretty, wild-eyed girl on the cusp of adulthood, and desperate to speak to a woman closer to her age and hear stories about Historia’s time in Paris.

“You and Erwin seem to have the most perfect marriage! I can only hope to find a husband so charming and handsome one day…” said the girl, dreamily.

“We love each other dearly,” Historia said, smiling, “he is a very good man, I am very fortunate.”

“How wonderful, to be in love!”

Historia thought of Ymir as she replied, “It is wonderful…”

“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind telling me how you met the love of your life?” The girl was staring at her with incredible attentiveness, ready to hang on Historia’s every word.

“Well, when I was nineteen, not much older than you, I went to live with my godmother in Paris…”

* * *

**_1906 - Historia_ **

As Historia stepped off the train, the World unfurled around her, wider than she had ever imagined and the taste of freedom coloured all things sweet: the heavy coal-smoke of the train’s engine, the clambering shouts of luggage boys, even the sweaty jostling of passengers on the platform was a delight.

So swept up was she in the moment, she almost forgot her luggage, but a boy was already there with a small mountain of suitcases on a trolley, another perk of first-class travel. She strained her eyes, shielding them with a white-gloved hand against the smoke, but couldn’t see her godmother anywhere.

Her godmother, Zoe, was a strange character. Heiress to an immense fortune amassed by her father in India, her incredible wealth somehow seemed to exempt her from the usual rules of society. Historia had been drawn to her from a young age, and she had pleaded with her parents for years until they finally relented and allowed her to go to Paris and stay with her godmother.

“We can’t keep you here forever, much as we’d like to,” her father had said.

“You can work on your painting, your french, and maybe even find a dashing suitor,” her mother had said.

She had squealed and hugged them both, and now here she was, finally freed of the luxurious confines of her family’s vast estate in England.

A young man approached her, taking off his wool flat cap, “Mademoiselle Historia? Do you remember me? I am Moblit. I came to England last time as coachman. I was sent by Zoe, she will be little bit late, maybe half-hour late,” he said in careful English.

“Why yes, I do remember you, Moblit,” replied Historia, “thank you for coming to meet me. Are we to wait here for her?”

“Yes, yes, she will not be so long.”

He was wrong. They ended up waiting almost an hour, but even the wait couldn’t dampen Historia’s soaring mood. Her godmother finally arrived, and as usual, it was a shock to see her. She wore a striking and unfashionable purple suit jacket over a green skirt-waist and navy skirt. Most surprising was the dreadfully dated, Victorian top hat she wore so that all in all she looked more like a confused time-traveller than a Parisian lady.

Historia beamed as they kissed hello, “My dearest goddaughter, how excited I am for your stay! I’ve prepared a lovely set of rooms for you. Oh, you’re going to love Paris, I just know it, come now, we have so much to see, so much to do! Moblit, get these bags in the car, would you?” And on she went in an energetic spiel. The woman was always talking, hands gesticulating wildly, no topic out of bounds.

Living with Zoe was a whirlwind, and Historia loved every second of it. She’d never known someone with so many interests, and Zoe had the time and the money to pursue all of it. She lived in a large mansion in the North of the city, and half the house had been converted into what Zoe called her ‘invention space’. More often than not, Historia would find her godmother dressed in men’s overalls like a common labourer, tinkering away with the innards of a car, or half an aeroplane, or setting up large rods of metal that whizzed and sparked with electricity.

A room with wide, bay windows was soon converted into a studio space where Historia received her lessons in painting from a grand master three times a week. He was a gentle, soft-spoken old man, but he was a good friend of Zoe’s and a good teacher. She sank into the art form with a fervour and passion she had never known before.

In the evenings, Zoe would take Historia out into Paris and they’d go to balls, they’d dine at the most expensive hotels in the city, they’d visit the museums and latest art exhibitions. It was like a fairy-tale, and Historia was drunk with it.

Her heart was open, her mind liberated, her soul soaring. Like a canvas primed and ready for the first splashes of colour to be drawn on it, Historia was ready for love.

* * *

**_1889-1900 - Ymir_ **

When Ymir’s mother left her outside the convent, it was a relief. Even at the young age of seven, she understood enough about the World to know that her house was no home. Her father would come home drunk most nights, and from the wardrobe where she slept, she could hear the crack of his belt against her mother’s skin and her stifled sobs.

There were other men who came during the day. Ymir’s mother would place her in the wardrobe and tell her to stay quiet, and Ymir would sit and make up stories, trying to ignore the strange grunts and slapping of flesh.

She might have had an older sister once. It was hard to remember those days. She had a vague memory of an older girl taking her outside and sneaking her into a daycare they couldn’t afford. What happened to her sister, she never found out, but whatever it was, it prompted her mother to leave her on the steps of the Sacred Heart Convent on a cold, bitter night.

Ymir grew fond of the convent. She was a perceptive, bright girl, and quickly realised that the convent might be the only place in the World where a woman could spend a lifetime learning and not be bothered by men: and that was all she wanted. The Sacred Heart shared a huge library with the nearby monastery, and outside of her duties and prayers, she was allowed to read to her heart’s content.

She liked the simplicity of living. She didn’t understand frivolous fashion and saw no great need for silks or fine furs; she had no desire to own jewels or pretty ornaments. For the rest of her life, she would choose to wear black; it was easier and faster than deciding what colours to choose.

By the time she was fourteen, she was hungry for more knowledge than the library or the nuns could provide. She was fluent in Latin, French, German, Spanish, and Italian. Had she had the chance, she could have put any Cambridge man to shame with her knowledge of History and literature. But she wanted more. There were so many areas of study the Church wouldn’t allow her, such as Biology and Physics. Besides which she was immensely curious about the wider world. What were other religions like? What was the Middle East like? How did Arabic compare with Latin? What was it like in Japan? In China? In India?

That was where they stopped her. Certain topics were beyond the remit of the Church, nor was it appropriate learning for a young woman.

So, she left.

She was fifteen when she fled the convent. She stole some workman’s clothes from the convent’s community laundry, cut her hair short, and pawned a heavy, ornate bible for money.

Paris was the logical choice. As a matter of practicality, it was the nearest hub of knowledge and activity outside of England. When Ymir arrived, she spent a week walking the city’s cobbled streets and hidden alleyways, learning the smell and flavour of each _Quartier_ , drinking in the differences in music and class. Through her explorations, she found her new home: a crumbling bookshop strategically placed between the Sorbonne University and _Le Jardin de Luxemburg._

It was a magical place. A tiny shop, but seemingly bottomless for its store of knowledge. It was a far cry from what she’d known at the convent: it catered mostly to students, whose tastes were wide and boundless, and in exchange for meals and a place to sleep in the leaking attic, the owner was grateful for help running it, especially from someone passionate about knowledge.

Living as a boy made her life much easier, and her chores were minimal, otherwise, she was free to pass hours chatting to the students, hoping to absorb their learnings, or she would spend whole days buried in books. For Ymir, it was paradise.

She might have passed her whole life like that, if not for the changes wrought on her body by adulthood. The challenges were twofold: first, she realised that eventually, the owner might question her unbroken voice and small stature; second, where she had been content to stand alone and fend for herself, a yearning grew within her for companionship. She didn’t just crave physical intimacy, she wanted someone to share her knowledge with and pass sweet summer evenings strolling along the Seine.

One day, a regular to the bookshop, a student, brought a young woman with him. The girl was delicate, dressed all in lace and ribbons to the extreme and with a heavy hat piled high with feathers. Ymir’s disdain for excess and ornaments disappeared in a heartbeat, and she was captivated by this sweet girl, skin, and hair so soft and flowing, all curves and gentleness.

“Trust me,” the bookshop owner had said, seeing Ymir’s face, “not a good idea. A woman like that would never go for a boy like you.”

He was right. The girl never even noticed Ymir’s presence. Nor did any of the other girls. It was then she knew she must seek out others like her. First, she went to Montmartre. There, the rich and the poor jostled together for good alcohol and the best whores, and it was there she made her first friends.

It was scarcely a secret that there were brothels where both women and men alike would sell pleasure for money, and these people welcomed her when they learned what she was. She was seventeen when she was pulled into the fabulous world of frivolous sex, riotous parties, and burlesque dancing.

She grew out her hair and started dressing as a woman again. She moved to Montmartre, where she could be closer to the chaos and share a flat with several theatrical artists. It was wild and it was fun, but still she found herself yearning, and when she would see the elite of Paris, the women in their splendid dresses and delicate gloves, she would long to speak to them, to touch them, to get to know them.

Eventually, she couldn’t help herself.

* * *

**_1906_ **

“Ymir, why the long face?” said Fabien, her flatmate. He worked as a dancer at one of Montmartre’s clubs.

They were at a lively party in a dingy underground basement, full of dancing bodies pressed close but Ymir sat alone in the corner, steadily making her way through her second bottle of shit, acidic wine.

“None of your business.”

“Let me guess, the Albret woman cut short your affair?”

Ymir just glared at him and knocked back the dregs of her wine glass.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, settling himself beside her, “I don’t know why you insist on going after those types of women. You know they’re taken, and if not, they’ll get married eventually. They’ll always put their husbands and society first.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know what terrible taste I have?”

“Darling, there’s terrible taste, and then there’s quitting your job to work as a governess so that you can spend more time with the rich, lonely women of Paris. _Oh, please help me Miss Ymir, my husband’s always out, and I’m tired of looking after the children all day and I’m so desperately in need of company…._ ”

“Hey, shut up! You know I only started this work because I earn much more as a governess.”

“ _Sure_ ,” said Fabien, rolling his eyes, “but how many of your employers have you fucked at this point? Ow!” he cried, as Ymir hit him sharply on the arm, “what? I’m not wrong. At least, right?” Ymir hit him again, “Ok! Ok! I’m just saying, why not, I don’t know, take one of _our_ people to bed instead? Plenty of girls who’d be happy to bed you, and they’ll do better than cut you off to go marry some man.”

Ymir just scowled into her empty wine glass, glaring darkly at her friend whilst she refilled, “I could…I _have_ , Fabien…I’ve made my rounds. I just…it’s the dainty parasols, and the lace, and the little white gloves, and the hats, the curving waistlines and large skirts…I can’t help being drawn to them. So soft and delicate-“

“-and lonely? And naïve? I think you just like being the first woman to bed them. I think you like disrupting their little bubble of high society.”

“Oh, fuck off Fabien. So? I can’t help who I’m attracted to. You can’t talk, I heard you have a taste for _fine gentlemen_ yourself.”

Fabien raised his hands in surrender, “Ok, you got me. I like a man in a tailcoat.”

“See? How are you any different from me?”

Fabien rolled his eyes and grabbed the wine bottle from Ymir’s hand, swigging most of it straight from the bottle despite her protests. The two sat watching the dancers heave to the upbeat rhythm of the music; a folksong of fiddle and flute made headier by the clattering clang of a stick against metal. The room was thick with laughter, sweat and arousal as the heaving bodies pressed closer, feet moving without thought.

Through the crowd, Ymir saw her: a fair-haired young woman, skin flushed with exertion, head thrown back with laughter as she danced. She looked like an angel, and Ymir’s heart stopped in her chest.

“Who. Is. That?” She asked Fabien, eyes fixed to the girl.

“The pretty blonde girl? _Putain,_ but you really do know how to pick him. She’s only the goddaughter of one of the richest women in the City, Zoe Mountbatten. Probably the wealthiest person in this room.”

“I must speak with her.”

“Seriously? Have you learned nothing from our chats?”

“Wish me luck.”

“Ymir! Fuck!” it was too late, Ymir was already moving across the room, just as the song came to a close. The man who had been dancing with the beautiful girl whispered something in her ear, but the girl just shook her head and stepped aside.

Ymir’s heart was in her chest as she drew closer. The girl turned towards her.

“Would you allow me the next dance?” Ymir said.

Historia smiled, “I’d be delighted.”

* * *

**_April 1911_ **

Erwin took out the cigars and passed them around to all the men: himself, Historia’s brother Charles, and his brother-in-laws, Edward and Richard. An hour passed pleasantly enough, with talk remaining very passive. They spoke about work, the possibilities of war, the worrying advances in women’s suffrage.

By the time they reached the second round of whiskeys, the tone changed as all four raised a toast to Erwin and Historia and their anniversary. From there, the talk was all about women. Erwin much preferred talk of politics.

“I can’t tell you how stifling it gets in our house sometimes,” said Charles, “Of course, I care for my wife as much as any man, but sometimes I feel as though we’re worlds apart, really.”

“Most certainly, women are different creatures entirely. I hardly know many couples who truly share a spark after several years of marriage, one merely learns to live with one’s spouse,” said Edward.

“Although I have to say, Erwin, you really got lucky with Historia, eh? You two seem to have a genuine fondness for each other, I envy you that,” said Richard.

Erwin smiled a strained smile, wishing with all his heart for the conversation to move on.

“How exactly did you meet, anyway?” asked Charles, “Ada’s told me that you were childhood friends. Made it out to be some fate-destined romance as women tend to. But tell us really what happened.”

“Ah, well, that’s not quite right. Our families have always known each other, but I only really came to know Historia later on. I had just come back from my sabbatical in Rome…”

* * *

**_1905-1906 - Erwin_ **

Erwin stared at the larger-than-life statue before him, sculpted to perfection for eternity in white marble. It was not the most beautiful sculpture in the Lateran Museum, nor was the figure particularly handsome or muscled, but in Erwin’s eyes, it was the most interesting of all.

“Admiring young Bacchus, here?” said a voice from behind him, in English. Erwin jumped and spun around.

A man stood behind him, dark hair shining and expertly waxed in place with pomade, a shining silk scarf at his neck. His eyes were a startling golden colour and he dazzled Erwin with a wide, handsome smile.

Erwin eventually remembered he had been asked a question.

“Oh, yes…I wanted to see the famous statue of Antinous. To die so young, at only nineteen...”

“And be immortalised as a God by the Emperor Hadrian himself. The highest of honours, a statue to make eternal the love he bore for this boy, an iconic example of homosexual love in ancient history,” said the man, raising an eyebrow. Erwin was once again frozen in place by the man’s brilliant smile.

“I’m Claudio, the curator of this museum,” the man said, reaching out a sun-kissed hand.

“Erwin,” said Erwin, shaking hands firmly.

“Let me take you for coffee. I always enjoy the opportunity to talk about history.”

Erwin was too eager to accept. He was already captivated.

* * *

Claudio took Erwin under his wing. He showed Erwin the City’s ruined temples, Corinthian columns heavy with moss. He led Erwin into turbulent fish-markets in alleyways made dark by low arches between the buildings. He took Erwin to strange, hole-in-the-wall restaurants serving delicate dishes carefully flavoured with meat and wine.

Wherever the man went, Erwin followed, entranced. He knew he was smitten, and Claudio knew it too, and the man seemed to find his devotion entertaining.

Claudio was eight years his senior, and he would tease Erwin playfully for his immaturity. The first time Claudio kissed him, Erwin could hardly move, hardly breathe and he thought his heart would burst from his chest. From there, it became even harder to resist the man who would find any excuse to touch Erwin: a hand on his lower back to steer him towards their destination, and playful jibe in the arm when Claudio teased him, a gently brush of his fingers along Erwin’s neck.

It was thrilling and intense, but when Claudio would kiss him and ask him to go home with him, Erwin always turned him down.

For as long as he could remember, he had wanted someone to call his friend. Not just any friend, but someone to bare his soul to, someone to share every part of himself and his life, and who would share everything in return. As Plato had written in _The Symposium_ , there was a Greek myth that all people were created with four arms, four legs, and two faces but Zeus had split them in two, condemning them to spend their lives searching for their other half.

He’d first read the Symposium as a boy of fourteen at boarding school. It was a miracle he had found a copy which hadn’t been censored. It had been like an awakening for him, proof that there were others like him.

The way he felt with Claudio, Erwin thought he had found his other half: that he had found someone to share his life with.

How naïve he had been.

Several months after meeting, Claudio seemed to change. His offers to take Erwin out dwindled, and he seemed increasingly frustrated that Erwin wouldn’t go to bed with him. Sometimes, Erwin would search for him at the Lateran Museum, only to see him laughing with another man, a short, wide-eyed youth with startling curly hair.

He hadn’t understood what had changed; it was as if Claudio was bored of him. How could his other half be bored of him, if they were destined to be together? He appeared at Claudio’s apartment one day, intent on finding out what was going on. Claudio greeted him with a kiss, but it left Erwin’s mouth with a bitter taste.

“I hardly see you these days, what’s going on?” Erwin said.

“Nonsense, nothing’s going on. I’ve shown you all there is to see now, so there isn’t much point in taking you out all the time.”

“I saw you. With another man. In the museum. Don’t think I don’t know, because I do.”

“Erwin, darling, I can have other friends, can’t I? You always ask me if I’ll be your friend, and I’ve told you countless times, I am happy to. What’s your problem?”

“I… I don’t want you to have other friends.”

Claudio laughed, and each ripple was like a knife in Erwin’s stomach.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you know that’s not how I am, don’t you? I have no desire to belong to anyone, to be exclusive. You didn’t think I was yours, did you? How stupid are you?”

Erwin couldn’t reply, disgust and anger jostling within his heart.

Seeing his face, Claudio tutted, as if telling off a child, “Aw, you _did_ think that, didn’t you? I’ll bet you had some foolish, romantic notions about destiny.”

It was more than Erwin could bear. He lunged, shoving Claudio as hard as he could, and the man’s face contorted into anger as he lashed out in return. The brawl was ugly. There were tears in Erwin’s arms, shouts filled the air, whether his own or Claudio’s he didn’t know, until finally Erwin knocked Claudio to the ground and pinned him in place.

“Was I just a game to you?” Erwin said, voice strained.

“Erwin, _Life_ is a game. Men like us, we don’t get happy endings. So, you take what you can, you find pleasure where you can, and you don’t waste your time on foolish notions about fate. We’re all just human, just mammals looking for someone to fuck, someone to talk to, someone to fight.”

Erwin released his hold, shaking his head, tears streaming, “You can go to Hell, Claudio.”

And then he left. He ran, and he never stopped running.

* * *

**_1907_ **

Erwin groaned but put on a half-hearted smile as he saw that his mother was, yet again, accompanied by a pretty, fair-haired, young woman, no doubt someone she’d just ‘bumped into’ and decided Erwin just ‘had to meet’. He nodded politely, automatically, and steeled himself for the usual, awkward Saturday lunch.

His two older sisters, Ada and Kitty, had already married and moved out, and now it was just Erwin and his mother in their suburban home, and she seemed determined to find him a bride. The parade of eligible young women had started almost as soon as he had returned from Rome, and he was starting to tire, wondering when his mother would leave him alone.

She would move into Ada’s house when he was married, she had said, but Erwin had no desire to marry, and no idea how else to get her off his back.

He knew what people were saying about him, wondering why he’d chosen Rome, why he’d spent so long there, why he had yet to show interest in any of the fair ladies lining up to bash their eyelids at him. The rumours circulated, but he could hardly do anything about them. Knowing no way out of his situation, he kept quiet, settled into his life working at his father’s old company, and swallowed his emotions.

“You remember Historia, don’t you Erwin? We visited the Reiss family a few times when you were children and their wonderful estate near York.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall,” said Erwin, not looking at the girl. It was best to ignore them.

“A very fine family,” continued his mother, “and how are they, Historia?”

“They are in good health, thank heavens. I was worried, with this bout of influenza going around, but fortunately it hasn’t reach us up North yet.”

“That’s good to hear. And your mother tells me you’ve just returned from Paris?”

“I have, yes, I stayed with my godmother, there.”

“How delightful. Erwin spent some time in Rome, the year before last, didn’t you Erwin?”

“Hm?” He said, snapping to attention, “Oh, yes. I did.” He didn’t notice the way that Historia was watching him, carefully.

The small talk continued for some time until Erwin’s mother made her usual false excuse to leave them alone for a bit. Erwin hated this particular part of the charade because he would have to think up questions to ask and pretend to be engaged.

Historia’s gaze was very direct as he cleared his throat and proceeded to ask her about Paris. He hardly listened to her answer. It was hard enough to resist the urge to flee, but then Historia stood up and moved so that she was sat beside him, and he looked at her in confusion as she lowered her voice and leaned closer to ask:

“Erwin, I’ve heard the rumours about you, are they true?”

Erwin’s eyes widened, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Historia ducked her head, sighing, “nevermind, I had hoped…”

“You had hoped what?”

Her gaze was clear as she looked at him again, “I know the rumours that followed you from Rome. I have my own rumours that followed me from Paris, and now my family is desperate to marry me off to dispel them…do you understand what I’m saying?”

Erwin did. Very clearly, he realised that Historia was like him, and what a risky and brave move she had made in telling him. He nodded, “perhaps, we are alike…”

Footsteps jostled them. “I think I hear your mother returning, we can’t talk here. I’m staying in a hotel in the City for a few weeks. Would you meet me there? We can talk then.”

Erwin nodded, “Alright…”

* * *

**_April 1911_ **

That night, long after their guests had left, Erwin and Rivaille lay in bed, skin flushed, breathless, and naked. A match scarped against a tinderbox, and smoke coiled around them as Rivaille sat up, cigarette in hand, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“A little late if I did,” Erwin chuckled, “I’ll have one too.”

Another cigarette was lit, handed to him and the drag of smoke into his lungs was a glorious burn. Erwin’s eyes were glued to Rivaille, who was sprawled, arm above his head as he watched smoke spiral up into the ceiling, so comfortable in his own skin and his nudity.

“You’re so different around them,” Rivaille said.

“So are you.”

“That’s different. I’m just playing my part as the good, silent, obedient, servant.”

“And I’m not playing a part?”

Rivaille took another long drag, this time blowing smoke rings, “I guess you’re right. Maybe everyone’s just pretending. I hate it.”

“Why do you do it then?”

A thud as Rivaille tipped his head back against the headboard.

“It’s a roof over my head, regular meals, a steady wage. And my father was a butler, so I knew the basics.”

The heavy, dark air filled his lungs as Rivaille thought of people long gone. His father had been the first to leave him. He had a distant memory of a big house in the country, somewhere in Aix-en-Provence. His father had taught Rivaille his letters and some numbers, the way to speak to nobles, how to clean. Influenza had taken him.

Then, Rivaille had been packed off to Paris to live with his criminal uncle, Kenny. He’d taught Rivaille how to wield a knife, how to steal, how to survive, and then he’d disappeared. Probably dead in a ditch somewhere or in prison, for all Rivaille knew.

He meant many years homeless, living on the streets, a dirty street urchin. He’d met Eren, his first friend, and later his first lover. It was hardly surprising when Eren died: they were young, underfed, always cold, often sick, and too eager to seek oblivion in a bottle. What was more surprising was that Rivaille had survived.

And how many times had Isabel almost died on them? Her own parents had left her on the curb, disgusted by her, thinking her cursed. They thought that Epilepsy was the touch of the devil himself. Rivaille had found Furlan and Isabel not long after Eren had died. They had saved him, and he was determined to protect them in return.

The streets were hard for anyone, but even more so for Isabel. So, they’d determined to live clean, quit alcohol and drugs, and earn a real wage. Rivaille cleaned himself up and worked a string of jobs, working hard and diligently, keeping his head out of trouble. He’d finally ended up working as a tea boy in a little high street café, a huge step up from factory work. There, Monsieur Castellane had found him, decided he’d wanted him (another ‘pretty boy’ for his household) and that had been that. Rivaille counted himself lucky.

He didn’t tell Erwin all of this.

Instead, he said: “I have a brother and sister in Paris. A steady wage means I can help them keep the roof over their head. It’s worth pretending for.”

“Do you miss them?” Erwin asked, quietly.

“Yes.”

Heavy memories flurried within his chest, fighting for a moment to escape and be heard, but Rivaille took a long, steadying drag, and kept the worst of his past locked away.

“Your turn,” he said, instead, “Tell me about you. Tell me something true. Something that isn’t pretend.”

“Hmm,” Erwin said, thinking. Rivaille already knew his deepest secret and the nature of his strange household. There were other secrets, things he never wanted to share, but that seemed too heavy.

“Alright, I’ll tell you something true. You were my first.”

Rivaille's mouth fell open, “ _Non!_ Really? I don’t believe it. You suck cock way too good for a virgin. And you mean to tell me, when I took you to bed in the Castellane house…that was your first time? Ever?”

Erwin’s face was much hotter now, but he suppressed the urge to hide, “Uh, yes. It was. I did say…”

“Yes, but I thought you just meant you’d never done _that…_ Seriously? But…how? You’ve travelled, I’m sure you’ve met men who have wanted you.”

“I have. But, before, when I was younger, I put too much expectation into it,” Erwin said, but couldn’t bring himself to talk about Claudio, “when I saw you…I just didn’t think. I wanted you, you wanted me, and that was that. In that moment, I didn’t know what I’d been waiting for.”

“Huh. Well. You have surprised me, Erwin.”

They stubbed out their cigarettes and Rivaille stood to get dressed and return to his room, as usual.

As he dressed, Erwin tried and failed over and over to find the words to ask him to stay, but in the end, he said nothing, and Rivaille wished him goodnight on his way out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erwin and Rivaille go for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for smut.
> 
> I felt like it was time for more Rivaille POV.

**_May 1911_ **

Rivaille stood out like a sore thumb against the classic columns of the grand building. The historic City of London was a nest of snatched buildings, fallen through time, all of them wiped of love or reason by the cold-hearted business that now took place within. Around Rivaille swirled a sea of black overcoats, hats concealing faces, briefcases hitting his shins. It had rained heavily the last few weeks, and the ground was fragrant with moisture.

He couldn’t fathom why Erwin had called him to his office on a Wednesday afternoon, but the reason had better be good. He had donned his Sunday best, a navy woollen suit with patches at the elbows and a scratchy flat cap, the only vaguely presentable outfit he owned.

Out of the fog of faceless businessmen, a figure detached itself, approached Rivaille, and he recognised Erwin’s distinctive bushy eyebrows from the slither visible between his hat and coat collar. He was smiling as he approached Rivaille, stopping at a reasonable distance and glancing around, probably making sure none of his colleagues saw him with Rivaille.

“This way, Rivaille,” he said, beckoning. Rivaille fell into step beside him, a platonic amount of space between them and they quickly fled the bustling business area. Once along the river, the people disappeared, and Erwin visibly relaxed.

“Are you going to tell me what I’m doing here?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, you see, there's a funny rule set up by my father, but all employees get the afternoon of May the 1st off, and I thought, after all that rain, a walk might be nice.”

“You had me come all the way into London because you wanted a _walk?_ ”

“Uh…yes? Is that so bad?”

Rivaille pushed his hands into his pockets, shoulders raising, “I guess not.”

Usually, when someone asked Rivaille to meet them as soon as possible at a certain location, it meant someone Rivaille cared for was in danger, someone had died, or someone wanted to fight him. This was the first time someone had asked to meet him just to walk.

“Have you seen much of London yet?”

Rivaille thought on this. He had Saturdays off, and usually, all he did was deliver his next letter for Isabel and Furlan and transfer them money. Exploring hadn’t occurred to him, it seemed like a frivolous activity.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Great! I can show you some of it, at least.”

“Are we heading anywhere in particular?”

“Perhaps.”

“…are you going to tell me where?”

Erwin’s eyes brightened, a smile tugging at his lips, “No. It’ll be a surprise.”

“Huh. Alright, then. Since I’m already here.”

“Excellent.”

And so, they walked. Rivaille didn’t understand it at first. Walking was a way to get from one place to another, not something he’d ever done just for the sake of it. But he realised the path that they were on wasn’t like the streets he’d known. It was wide and lined with trees, meanwhile, the river lapped gently against the bank beside them. On the other bank, rows of cherry blossom were just starting to bloom, and the sweet fragrance wafted across.

Two emotions jostled within him: the first, delight. There was a simple joy to be found in movement, eyes open, ears primed, drinking in the colours and sounds of Life. He’d rarely had the time or liberty for such things.

The second emotion was quieter, more subtle, and harder for him to name: discomfort. The afternoon increasingly felt like a dream that didn’t belong to him. As they passed handfuls of finely dressed people, Rivaille felt certain that whispers were passing between them about him and Erwin. Why would a gentleman like Erwin be walking like this with a common man?

He tried as best as he could to swallow down the unease, distracting himself with small conversation. Erwin spoke about his work, which to Rivaille sounded like the dullest profession in the World. Next, he spoke about the boxing club which was finally open again. This, Rivaille found much more interesting. He hadn’t boxed before, but he knew all there was to know about fighting. He’d been intrigued by the sport and he wondered how men might take out their aggression in a way that didn’t end with blood and bodies.

They eventually left the river and walked through the streets of London for a while, watching their step on the uneven cobblestones and careful of the horse-drawn carriages and manure. The streets here were lined with fine houses, all sparkling white. Rivaille marvelled to see such cleanliness, wondering how hard people like him must work to maintain it.

Finally, they arrived at a wide park, brilliant green extending in every direction, the scent of grass heavy and pleasant on Rivaille’s tongue.

“This is Regent’s Park,” said Erwin, “I used to come here as a boy to escape school. It’s one of my favourite places in the city.”

“I didn’t know London had gardens like this.”

“London has a little of everything if you know where to look,” said Erwin with a smile. When they turned down a gravel path and into the greenery, he walked much closer beside Rivaille.

“Would you tell me something?” Erwin continued.

“Like what?”

“Would you tell me something that isn’t pretend? About you,” Erwin asked, echoing Rivaille’s words the week before.

Rivaille was quiet for a while. There were many things he could have said, but the unease was still there in his gut, flaring up and grabbing hold of his heart at opportune moments.

“This is my first walk,” he said.

“Your first walk? What do you mean?”

“Yeah…I mean. I always thought that walking like this, without purpose, was for rich folk who have nothing better to do.”

“Oh…” Erwin became visibly awkward, and a flare of irritation thrummed under Rivaille’s skin.

“I just…You’ve got to understand. For me, for the longest time, I was just trying to survive to the next day. If I wasn’t surviving, I was working my ass off to get money so that my friends could survive too. There wasn’t time in all that to just take a stroll for the sake of it.”

Erwin nodded, “I see. I’d never thought of it like that…”

“Yeah, well, of course not. I’ll bet you’ve never worried about whether you would have food on your plate the next day.”

“You’re right. I haven’t. It seems there is much that I don’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to patronise.”

Just like that, his irritation dissipated. Erwin might be privileged and clueless about some things, but if he was willing to learn and admit his ignorance, Rivaille could work with that.

The path brought them to the top of the hill between some trees. Suddenly, London opened up before them, the darkening sky heavy with the reflected orange glow of streetlamps coming to life.

Nestled at the base of the other side of the hill was a vibrant red object, squat and round like a giant spinning top. The bouncing music and glow of lights and laughter grabbed them, drawing them in.

Rivaille’s eyes lit up, “Is that where we’re going? A circus?”

“Yes. It’s been so long since I went to one. Have you ever been?”

“I snuck in once, as a kid. I was tempted to join them and run away.”

“Really? And what, exactly, is your skill?”

“I have a way with throwing knives. I never miss.”

Rivaille didn’t miss the way Erwin stilled, eyes darkening slightly. Interesting.

“I’ll show you sometime,” Rivaille said with a flirtatious smirk, “but for now…I’ll race you!” And Rivaille grinned as he turned and fled, sprinting down the hill with abandon. Erwin wasn’t far behind him. As the world blurred, he hooted with laughter, adrenaline surging through his veins, feeling suddenly, madly liberated.

Screw his fine shoes, screw decorum, screw pretending. As Rivaille ran, breath heaving, the World flying around him, he was more alive and more himself than he had been in a long time. The glowing red tent loomed closer, and it seemed that he was a boy again, just as hypnotised by the big lights and loud music.

Erwin caught up to him and they stood, catching their breath, and burst into laughter. It echoed, pealing and full of promise, into the evening sky. The magical quality of the circus enveloped them, and they passed through the ticket booth and into the tent in a daze; everything both more real and more dreamlike than the real World left at the door.

Bodies pressed close, chattering, giggling, giddy. Mouths crunched loud on popcorn and peanuts and they found themselves squeezed into the back row of benches behind many others, the crowd pushing them, so they were pressed close, thighs touching. Rivaille was sure the excitement he saw in Erwin’s eyes was reflected in his own as the music abruptly disappeared and a hush descended over the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our carnival of dark mysteries and delights!” yelled a portly man with a large moustache and colourful tunic, “Let me introduce our amazing performers! Tonight, they will change your lives forever!”

The show began.

It was even more magical than Rivaille had remembered, each act gripped with danger and excitement (although the knife-throwing act was a little underwhelming, in Rivaille’s opinion. He was sure he could have done better.) There were women dressed in skimpy costumes and ostrich feathers walking across a tightrope whilst a tiger prowled below. There was a magician who sawed his assistant seemingly in half, before making her reappear, whole, in a closed cupboard. There was a dashing snake charmer, balancing precariously on a tall pole, three snakes slithering over his head as he played a flute.

In the darkness of the tent, Rivaille lost himself to the show, captivated, and it seemed Erwin did too. Hidden away from the World, away from society, away from their jobs, away from family, there was no pretending. Halfway through the second act, Rivaille felt the slightest touch against his hand. Erwin’s pinkie finger was gently pressed against his own, their thighs still pressed close in the cramped space.

The next time the crowd roared with shock as an acrobat somersaulted overhead, Erwin’s fingers shifted again, twitching closer, the pads of his fingertips soft against the wrinkled skin of Rivaille’s knuckles: a question. Rivaille turned over his hand so that the palm faced upwards: an answer.

Gently, Erwin laced his fingers through Rivaille’s.

Later, when he would look back on that day, he wouldn’t remember the acts; wild and impressive though they had been. He wouldn’t remember the press of the crowd or the cry of the ringleader. But he would remember Erwin’s touch. He would remember the feeling of Erwin’s fingers within his own, somehow infinitely more intimate than anything they had previously shared.

Rivaille wasn’t prepared for the effect such a touch would have on him. It left him giddy, chest tight and over-warm. It numbed all unease, all uncertainty, all doubtful thoughts. It pinned him to his body, cementing him in the present.

Eventually, the show ended, and Erwin let go. The spell had broken, and Rivaille remembered who he was again. Despite the rush of reality returning, the magic of the evening was still at work and the complexities awaiting him seemed bite-sized and small, distant things to be dealt with tomorrow.

The journey back lingered with the aftertaste of exhilaration, the momentum of the evening’s emotions still going even though the show was long over. They were silent on the train, still half-lost in a dreamland, the wheels click-clacking at regular intervals on the tracks.

When they entered Erwin’s home, Rivaille felt discomfort gnawing at him again. Should he take Erwin’s hat and coat? That’s what he would usually do. But he’d never come through the door _with_ Erwin. The indecision must have been clear in his stance and on his face because he felt Erwin’s arm wrap around him and pull him close.

Erwin removed his hat, holding it to his chest as he leant down to place the whisper of a kiss on Rivaille’s lips, before stepping away and taking his own hat and coat away to hang them up. Rivaille stood, frozen, where Erwin had held him. Erwin had just kissed him, right there in the hallway, where anyone could see.

He was still frozen when Erwin returned and began heading up the stairs, turning when he realised Rivaille hadn’t followed

“Can I take you to bed?” Erwin asked, voice low. He held out his hand.

Rivaille took it.

He felt drunk as he was led up the stairs, everything narrowing to Erwin and the soft but firm clasp of his hand. The bedroom door closed behind them, and Erwin was gentle as he stepped forward, arm wrapping around Rivaille’s waist to draw him close once more.

The flavour with which they approached each other was markedly different from usual. They took their time, cautious as if it were the first time.

Erwin drew him to the bed and sat, Rivaille still standing before him, eyes fixed on Rivaille’s chest as he unbuttoned his shirt. When it was off, he wrapped both arms around Rivaille, face pressed to his clavicle and for a while, he was still, breath hot against Rivaille’s skin. In return, Rivaille carded his hands through Erwin’s hair, body sighing into the contact, pulling the man close as if the tight weave of their arms around each other could say ‘ _I’m here, I’m alive_.’

After that, each garment of clothing was savoured; taken off delicately, each unwrapping the other like a gift, until both were naked. For the first time in Rivaille’s life, he felt shy about his nudity. Erwin had seen him naked so many times, but this felt new, and he wanted to hide from the gaze which bore into him, seeing past all his defences.

He reached for Erwin, lips hungry, skin wanting contact, anything to stop the man staring at him like that. Rivaille poured everything into the kiss, and their limbs slid together as they tumbled back onto the bed, Rivaille arching to press their erections together. He was dizzy with the slide of their skin, the beat of Erwin’s heart under his fingertips, the air heavy with sweat.

Rivaille flipped over, loving the weight of Erwin pressing him down into the mattress. Erwin’s cock was hard and hot against the crack of his ass and Rivaille was suddenly impatient, a moan leaving his lips as he pushed back against the man.

He didn’t notice Erwin reach for the jar of oil and was surprised when slick-coating fingers prodded at his entrance. Rivaille pushed his ass up, needing more, fucking himself back onto Erwin’s hand as the man pushed his fingers in deeper, curling and spreading them, pulling Rivaille open until Rivaille was ready for him.

Erwin turned him onto his back, and Rivaille shut his eyes to escape Erwin’s gaze as the man pushed into him, thick cock spearing him open. Rivaille swore silently, wrapping his arms and legs around Erwin to pull him in closer.

The first thrust startled him. Too full. Too much. His eyes fell open, and Erwin was looking at him still: gazing at him like he was precious, like Erwin was reaching into more than just his body, like Erwin _knew_ him, like Erwin wanted everything. Rivaille gasped, shocked to find tears in his eyes as Erwin thrust into him, long, slow and deep and it was almost more than he could bear.

He clung on for dear life as Erwin pushed into him over and over, senses overwhelmed, body over-heated, heart warm and tight with something big, something heavy and through it all he just gripped Erwin as tight as he could until with a silent gasp his orgasm was knocked from his body just from the deep thrusts of Erwin inside him.

The world vanished. Everything too bright. His body and mind were soaring high, somewhere far away. It was a while before he returned.

When he did, Erwin was there, cleaning them both up. The man wrapped himself around Rivaille, and Rivaille found he didn’t want to move. He never wanted to leave the warmth of this embrace. Body aching, heart straining, he curled into Erwin’s warmth and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that Desire is the kinder face of Suffering.

**_May 1911_ **

When the mind and heart are in turmoil, it takes only the smallest of nudges to topple from a state of balance into a state of imbalance. Unsteadiness grew within Rivaille, the seeds starting in his stomach then seeping into his subconscious and finally spilling into his daily thoughts.

Why was it that every act of kindness Erwin showed him only seemed to hurt him more? Each tinged with acidity as if they were laced with a sweet, but faint poison. Erwin grew more confident with his displays of intimacy, albeit still limited to within the house, but whilst Rivaille ached for more his stomach would twist with unease, apprehensive of each passing caress.

His mind tried to rationalise his feelings and concluded that he was uncomfortable with the changing nature of their relationship; that he was simply uncertain about how he should behave: lover, or servant? Friend, or employee? Whilst this was true, he knew deep down it was more than that. Rivaille was terrified, but he could not bring himself to name the reason why.

Was he losing himself? In Paris, he had always known his own mind. Through everything that Life had forced him to endure, the one comfort he could rely on was his strong sense of self and his ability to stand on his own two feet.

But these days he hardly had any time alone. His days and nights were spent in _Erwin’s_ home, living as part of _Erwin’s_ Life, whilst his free Saturdays would pass in a heartbeat and it wasn’t as if he had friends or family to visit. In short, he realised he had no Life outside of Erwin and his household, and that slow erasure of his independence gripped his heart painfully and startled him out of sleep.

The day at the circus increasingly seemed like a fairy-tale or a dream. Perhaps they really had passed into another land, a magical land, one where the complexities of Life didn’t exist. With the exception of that surreal occasion, Rivaille was careful not to fall asleep in Erwin’s bed. It seemed like the final step that would irreparably blur the lines in their relationship forever.

They went back to how things had been, before that exceptional day, except that Erwin kept breaking away from the script. Before, they would play their roles during the day, Erwin the master and Rivaille the valet. Now, Erwin would pull him close or brush the hair from his face, even when Historia was present.

And then came one touch that tipped the scales; the first in a long line of dominos in Rivaille’s mind.

Erwin’s sister, Ada, and her husband had come to visit for supper, and in the brief interlude between the meal and drinks in the living room, Erwin pulled Rivaille into his study to steal a kiss. It was risky, and Erwin must have known that. As Fate would have it, Ada chose just that moment to come bursting into the study unannounced.

Erwin pushed Rivaille away sharply, the force of his hand on Rivaille’s chest stinging. Erwin had fled with Ada, eager to make sure she hadn’t seen, eager to move past it, to continue to pretend that Rivaille was nothing but his valet.

It felt as though the imprint of Erwin’s hand on his chest stung for days. It was like the floodgates opening.

* * *

The tangled mess within him snarled when Rivaille reached the boxing club. Rivaille had been avoiding Erwin for days: as much as was possible given that he served the man and lived under his roof, but he had accepted Erwin’s invitation to join a session. He needed to hit things. Lots of things.

He startled himself with the strength of his anger as he fought, punched, jabbed, parried: each fight only fuelling the fire even as releasing his pent-up frustrations was a relief. Erwin’s eyes followed him, but they didn’t speak. Erwin occupied himself teaching the newcomers and Rivaille focused on the fight.

When he ran out of opponents, the punching bag became his victim. He spun, aiming roundhouse kicks at it, lashing out with his fists, imagining how he would knock someone to the ground. As time went on, his movements only sped up, blood boiling, skin tingling, adrenaline surging.

Finally, he realised that the boxing club was almost empty. Most of the men were in the showers or had already left. It was just him and Erwin.

“You’ve got quite the fight in you today,” Erwin said, voice low, eyes worried. Rivaille didn’t look at him and aimed a particularly hard kick at the punching bag which swung upon impact, metal chain squeaking.

“Not my fault no one else could keep up with me.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to fight.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Sweat ran into his eyes as he pummelled the punching bag with a rapid-fire series of punches, dodging easily as it swayed back towards him.

He turned towards Erwin, “Your turn.”

“What? You want to … fight me?”

“Yes. You got a problem with that?”

“Well…it wouldn’t be a fair fight. We’re hardly the same weight class.”

“Are you saying you’re too scared? Maybe you’re too much of a coward.”

Rivaille felt triumphant as he watched Erwin grit his teeth together.

“Alright, get in the ring.”

Worry remained etched in Erwin’s bushy eyebrows. Rivaille hated it. He wanted to knock that condescending look right off his face.

Erwin might have more muscle, height, and reach, but Rivaille was much faster. He stayed light on his feet, easily dodging every one of Erwin’s jabs, keeping his distance. Boxing was much harder for him than the dirty street brawls he was used to, and he wasn’t a fan of sticking to the rules. But as he and Erwin continued to circle each other, he figured, no one was around.

Rivaille shot forward.

Erwin’s hands were up protecting his face, Rivaille feinted for a jab upwards, then went for his liver instead, feeling victorious as Erwin grunted with pain. Erwin lashed out, catching Rivaille in the forearm. Rivaille sidestepped, twisted around to hit Erwin around the ear where his protection was broken.

Something _snarled_ within him as he proceeded to use every dirty trick in the book to get past Erwin’s defenses, and each hit felt _good_. He _wanted_ Erwin to hurt. He wanted to hit back and lash out. He wanted to punish him.

Abandoning the rules of the game, Rivaille spun, leg hurtling through the air and the momentum of his kick knocked Erwin right to the floor. The next moment, Rivaille was on him and they were grappling on the floor, Rivaille pushing him down every time Erwin tried to push him off.

After several minutes of hard scuffling, Erwin stilled.

It was enough to bring some clarity to Rivaille’s mind through the haze of anger that had descended. He stopped. They were both breathing hard.

The World re-appeared in sharp focus. Disgust and regret surged through him.

In the next moment, he was out of the ring, fleeing out of the door, out of the boxing ring, _got to get away._

The rain was pouring down outside and it was growing dark, but Rivaille ignored it, letting the water cool his flushed skin as he walked quickly away from the boxing club. Why had he done that? Why had it felt so good to hit Erwin? What was wrong with him?

He didn’t hear Erwin following him until a hand was on his arm, startling him out of his thoughts. Rivaille shook him off and kept walking.

“Rivaille, wait,” Erwin’s voice was muffled by the rain.

Rivaille kept walking.

Erwin took hold of him again, pulling him into an alcove out of the rain, “Rivaille. Talk to me. What’s going on? Please.”

Rivaille shrugged out of his grip again and turned his head away, but the adrenaline was leaving his system and the fight went out of him. He sank, slowly, against the brick wall until he could squat, resting his arms on his knees. Opposite him, Erwin watched.

The coiled energy within him unfurled. His breathing slowed. Some time passed.

Eventually, Erwin sat down.

Water dripped down the strands of his hair and into his eyes. He wished the words would form themselves. As it was, verbalising the turmoil in his soul was difficult. He had to fight to get each feeling to settle long enough that he could understand it.

“Erwin…” blue eyes met his, “what are we doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about…This. Us. Are we just going to continue like this?”

Rivaille stared out into the rain but felt the weight Erwin’s gaze.

“I thought you wanted this,” Erwin said quietly, in a soft way that hurt.

“I wanted to take you to bed. I wanted you to stop lying to yourself about wanting me. But this…I don’t know what this is anymore. I don’t know where the boundaries are. When am I supposed to play the good, obedient servant, and when do I get to be _me_. And what are we, when most of the time we have to pretend?”

“We can work this out.”

“Can we? So, what then? We can keep fucking, just so long as no one outside your household ever finds out?”

“Well, yes. So long as we’re careful-“

“You’re not _listening._ I don’t want that. I don’t want to hide. It’s not who I am. I can’t do this, Erwin. I can’t conveniently suppress everything I am just so that you can keep this perfect façade you live in. In Paris, I never pretended to be someone I wasn’t. Not for one moment.”

“What are you saying? Do you want to… is this the end?”

Rivaille felt himself tearing in half, “…I… I don’t know. I think… I think I need time to think.”

He stood. Now that he was standing, it was hard to see Erwin’s expression in the shadow of the alcove. Not knowing what more to say, Rivaille left him, and headed back out into the rain.

* * *

He had done it again. After Claudio, Erin had sworn he would never let his emotions cloud reality until he was blinded by them, but here he was once more. Had that one day in the City been a dream? He was sure everything had changed after the circus. He was sure Rivaille had understood what Erwin had been trying to tell him, even if he hadn’t said as much in words.

How wrong he had been. Rivaille had been a completely different page. Perhaps Erwin had read everything wrong from the start. His mind was spinning in circles and it was only made worse by the fact that Rivaille was still _there_ , albeit doing his best to avoid all interactions: leaving Erwin’s clothes out while Erwin was in the washroom, gone by the time Erwin re-emerged.

Rivaille’s words reverberated in his mind. How could Erwin not have seen how troubled Rivaille was? How could Erwin have been so blind?

He placed himself in Rivaille’s shoes. He started to understand how foolish he had been. The whole affair had taken place here, under Erwin’s roof. He had thought Rivaille would be happy to become a part of his Life, but that was just it, Rivaille had never chosen to be there. What Rivaille craved most was independence, and he hardly had any of it. What a lie it would be to claim a relationship on equal footing, when that simply wasn’t true.

But what were the alternatives? Once, Erwin had been willing to give up everything for a chance at Love. That seemed like a long time ago. Would he still do something as crazy as that? If Rivaille wanted him to, if Rivaille asked him to, would he?

This was _Erwin’s_ home. This was _Erwin’s_ life. If he and Rivaille were to share a life on equal ground, it could not be here.

Erwin saw this now, clear as day, but he was weighed down with guilt and disgust that he hadn’t seen it before.

What on earth should he say to break the horrible silence? Was there anything he _could_ say to salvage the tangled mess of their relations? He wasn’t sure, but Historia was bound to snap at him to speak up soon, she could always tell when he was troubled.

In the end, he didn’t get the chance.

The moment his World came crashing down was the moment that Tommy, the Cook, knocked on his door one morning.

Erwin was startled to see Tommy. It was usually Rivaille’s duty to attend to him in the mornings.

“Tommy, what brings you?”

“It’s Rivaille, sir. He’s packing his suitcase as if he’s about to leave. I thought you ought to know.”

Erwin’s heart jumped into his throat. He raced down the main stairs after Tommy, hurrying up the creaking servant’s staircase to the small room that Tommy shared with Rivaille.

Rivaille was a flurry of movement, and just as Tommy had said, his suitcase was open and mostly packed on the bed. Rivaille stilled when he saw Erwin in the doorway. Erwin discretely asked Tommy to leave them.

The moment stretched on. Erwin thought it might sear itself into his mind forever. Rivaille wouldn’t look at him, but Erwin couldn’t pull his eyes away. Rivaille’s hair was tangled, as if he had pulled at it with his hands and his demeanor was cold and distant, eyes heavy and dark.

Finally, Rivaille started to move. He kept on as if Erwin wasn’t there, watching.

“Rivaille, why are you packing?”

“I’m leaving. I’m going back to Paris.”

“Leaving? You can’t just leave.”

“Oh yeah? Why the fuck not? You going to dismiss me? Well, I quit.”

“But you can’t just quit!”

Rivaille paused, and the edge in his voice was dangerous, “I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

Erwin felt as though the World was collapsing around him, “Why? Why now?”

“Because outside of this perfect little household there is a _real_ World. And that World is cruel. It will always take everything good from me, and I was an idiot to forget that.”

Rivaille’s words didn’t make sense, and a persistent ringing was growing in Erwin’s ears, “Please…please don’t end things like this.”

The clasps of Rivaille’s suitcase clicked shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot. Erwin couldn’t move, even as Rivaille pushed past him into the hallway.

Rivaille paused and looked back, “it was foolish we ever started this really, if you think about it. Trust me, you’ll be better off without me in your Life.”

And just like that, he turned and left.

When his footsteps had faded and disappeared down the creaking staircase, Erwin’s knees buckled from underneath him. He curled in on himself, and to his own horror, began to cry and didn’t stop for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpopular opinion: tension is beautiful, and the resolution of tension is what makes endings sweetest.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many forms of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for character death and self-destructive behavior.

**_June 1911_ **

Rivaille’s fingers ached. The whole journey to Paris, his hand had been tightly clenched around the small piece of paper. The telegram had contained less than ten words, all that Furlan could afford, but within an hour of receiving it, Rivaille had left Erwin’s house.

_ Come back. Isabel in bad state. Hospital St. Antoine _ __

The journey had taken two days and he hadn’t slept at all: he hadn’t been able to. As soon as the train pulled into  _ Gare du Nord _ he sprinted half way across the city, hardly bothered by the large suitcase he carried.

The Hospital St. Antoine was a ramshackle old building, stinking of old, unwashed bodies and piss. Rivaille was too familiar with it.

Finding Isabel was hard enough, but his impatience and anxiety made him bitter and snappy, only delaying the staff’s ability to deal with his request. When he finally found Isabel, she was crammed into a long ward filled with beds, the only modesty a paltry curtain in between them. It wasn’t enough to hide the groans and wails of the other occupants.

Furlan stood when he saw Rivaille, and the two hugged fiercely, “Rivaille, you came sooner than I’d expected.”

“Of course. I left as soon as I could. How is she?”

Furlan dropped his head, “Rivaille…it’s not looking good.”

Rivaille took a long look at their sister, her face drawn and pale, bright hair turned dark from sweat and grease where it stuck out from beneath heavy bandages. Her eyes were closed, and it was hard to detect the very faint rise and fall of her chest, so subtle that it was hardly there.

“What happened?”

“She had a fit whilst walking up the stairs to the apartment. She fell down the whole flight, hit her head in a bad way…

“Fuck. What the fuck was the point of the medicine then if it didn’t stop her fits?”

“I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t strong enough, maybe we were fools for thinking that would be enough…Rivaille, it’s my fault. I should have walked up the stairs behind her, or at least been watching or-“

“You better shut up right now Furlan. This was hardly your fault. So, what, you were going to be there every time she climbed up some fucking stairs? You know she hates being treated like she’s fragile…this isn’t your fault, ok? And if I hear you say that one more time, I’ll hit you.”

Furlan managed a weak smile, “I’m glad you’re here, brother.”

“I’m glad I’m here too,” replied Rivaille.

They sat either side of Isabel, each holding one of her hands, and tried not to let worry and apprehension consume them whole.

* * *

For all its flaws, England can be devastatingly beautiful, especially along the coast during summertime. Erwin’s cousin, Barry, with whom he would go hunting at his country lodge on weekends from time to time, owned a pleasant cottage in Wales overlooking the sea. Just beyond the measly city of Swansea lies the Gower Peninsula, and it is there the cottage is situated.

Each year, Erwin and Historia would holiday there for at least a week in the summer, but whether or not they would see sunshine each day was the usual coin toss. This year, Erwin was early and alone. Three days after Rivaille had left, Historia had forced him out of bed and prescribed him a dose of fresh air and time off work.

So, he’d called in an emergency week off due to illness and had a car drive him over to the cottage.

It was a simple dwelling made of stone: an old farmer’s cottage absorbed into Cousin Barry’s small estate nearby. Barry’s mother lived in a larger house there and would send over the groundskeeper and one of the maids to keep the place in order when a guest was visiting.

When he arrived the sea was sparkling, the gulls were circling, and the taste of salt lingered on the cool breeze. Fat clouds strolled across the sky, the sun peeking through at intervals and leaving a dappled tapestry across the hilly coast.

Normally, he might have run straight down the path to the sea or bounded out along the gorgeous coast for a much-needed walk, but this time Erwin felt so heavy he could hardly contemplate it. Instead, he shut the door of the cottage and lay down on the floor.

The dusty wooden floorboards were solid and grounding under him, and he could feel each point of contact along his body: the back of his knees, along his buttocks, against his palms. It helped somewhat with the dizziness within.

His mind was like a street-fiddler with only one song to sing. Round and round the words went, like an endless echo.

_ …It was foolish we ever started this really…Trust me, you’ll be better off without me in your Life… _ __

Each word dug into his chest, sharp and barbed, ripping open every levee he had built to keep the floodwaters at bay. Old memories surfaced. Claudio’s voice joined the din.

_ …Men like us, we don’t get happy endings… _ __

Wasn’t coming to the cottage supposed to help with this? He should have just stayed in his bed forever. If not for Historia, maybe he never would have. There was no going back now, the doors in his mind were all wide open, and there was nowhere else to run.

Erwin would have to face his demons.

* * *

“Look, you two, the Hospital’s got visiting hours for a reason. I’m afraid you will have to leave now,” the nurse said gently, “besides, you should get some rest.”

Rivaille jumped, surprised that he had dozed off and found himself uncomfortably sprawled half on Isabel’s bed, half on his stool.

“But what if…something happens while we’re gone?” Furlan said, hands still clasped around Isabel’s.

“I know it’s hard, but you can’t stay. Please, my boss will have a go at me if I let visitors stay the whole night.”

Furlan rubbed his eyes, already raw and red from lack of sleep and nodded, “alright, we’ll go,” Rivaille started to protest, but a look from Furlan was enough to silence him.

The warmth of the night was disgusting, bringing out the smog and dust in the heavy Parisian air. The walk back to the shoebox apartment was surreal; Rivaille could hardly believe he was back and the tangled threads of everything he was feeling seemed to trip up his footsteps and leave him sluggish and strangled.

It was with some relief when the door to Isabel and Furlan’s apartment clicked shut behind them. Rivaille collapsed on the tiny bed; body exhausted but mind too far gone to relax. Furlan sat on the bed beside him, shoulders drooping, hair falling over his eyes.

Rivaille hadn’t missed the smell of damp buried deep within the structure of the building, nor had he missed the curdling stains spreading steadily across the ceiling, but this small room had been Home longer than anywhere else had been. It had been theirs. Without Isabel’s laughter to fill it, it was just an over-priced shithole.

“When do visiting hours start again?” Rivaille croaked.

“Seven in the morning. It’ll already by light by then.”

The silence stretched between them, both thinking the same thing but hardly daring to voice it.

“Rivaille, if Isabel dies-“

“Don’t. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, alright? Just…please. Don’t.”

“…Ok.”

Rivaille stood, going through the motions of getting ready for bed. He stripped off his tired travelling clothes and splashed water on himself from the small sink in the corner. The claps of his suitcase clicked open as he fished out a new shirt and trousers, pulled them on, and then shoved the case under the bed. He cut open a can of beans and heated it on the small stove, spooning them into two bowls when it was warm and handing one to Furlan.

After they’d eaten, neither knew what to do. Sleeping seemed impossible, but it was hours until sunrise. They climbed into the narrow bed which somehow seemed large without Isabel in it with them. Furlan blew out the candle on the bedside table and the streetlamp vaguely brightened the room from black to a dark purple.

Furlan pulled Rivaille into a loose embrace, and Rivaille could feel the shakiness of his breathing.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” Rivaille said gently.

“Me neither,” Rivaille stretched his arm across Furlan, the physical contact helping to ground him, “how much leave have you got?” Furlan asked into the quiet of the night.

“Leave?”

“Yeah. From your English master, Mr. Erwin.”

Rivaille tensed, and too late, realised that Furlan had noticed, “Uh…As long as I need. I sort of quit.”

“Shit? Really? What, they wouldn’t let you come back for Isabel or some bullshit?”

“No, nothing like that. I was thinking of quitting anyway and then I got your telegram and I just did it.”

“You were? You never said, in your letters. We thought you were happy with the job.”

“I was and then I wasn’t.”

“Sure…This wouldn’t happen to be anything to do with Mr. Erwin himself, would it?”

“What? What makes you say that?”

“You mentioned him a lot…Isabel had a theory that there might be something going on between you two.”

Rivaille went silent.

“Shit. I take it she was right.”

“That girl is too fucking perceptive. I swear I was so careful.”

“She just knows you too well.”

Rivaille sighed, tangling a hand into Furlan’s, “before you lecture me Furlan, I  _ know  _ it was a stupid idea, alright? But…ah, shit, do you remember one of the last big parties Mr. Castellane threw before he died, the one when I told you I hooked up with one of the guests, some tall, blond English guy…”

“Yes…wait.  _ Non. S _ hit, you’re not telling me that the English guy was-“

“Yes. None other than my employer, Mr. Erwin Smith. I swear I didn’t know his full name when we went to bed, and I didn’t realise who he was until I arrived at his house.”

“Huh, no wonder you ended up fucking, since you already had.”

“Yeah, besides, he’s distractingly attractive…”

“Are you ever going to stop thinking with your dick?”

“I quit, didn’t I? That wasn’t thinking with my dick. I got out of there, it’s all in the past now. End of story.”

“No, come on, you can’t give me that Rivaille. Tell me what happened. What  _ really  _ happened.”

The whole journey to Paris, Rivaille had shied away from thinking about the mess of all that had happened with Erwin, but the night was long, he knew he wouldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t just him that could use the distraction.

Rivaille told Furlan everything. He spared no details, even the explicit ones. He told his brother about the stolen kisses behind closed doors, about Historia and Ymir, about Historia’s paintings, about Historia’s mother arriving unannounced. He told Furlan about that one, surreal Wednesday afternoon in the city and holding hands in the dark of a circus tent and the sex that felt horribly fragile and too real. He told him about how things fell apart, how good it had felt to hit Erwin at the boxing club, how everything had changed, and finally how things had been left.

“ _ Putain… _ that’s a mess,” Furlan said when Rivaille was finally done with the tale, “what now? Do you think you’ll go back?”

“No, I can’t, and I won’t. There’s no way they will want to see me again in that household, after I left the way I did, and after everything that passed between me and Erwin.”

“What did you tell Erwin when you left?”

“The truth: that he was better off without me in his Life.”

“Oh, Rivaille…do you really believe that?”

“What? It’s the truth isn’t it? I would ruin his Life. It’s fragile, being a high-standing member of society. Their whole, bullshit existence is precarious, balancing on careful falsities. Me? A low-class, foreign  _ man _ ? Having an affair with an English gentleman? I’m only trouble for him.”

“But Rivaille…it sounds like you two really had a connection. You know, more than just sex.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. It’s over, alright?”

“If you insist…When we visit Isabel tomorrow, you tell her, alright? You know she’ll love a juicy story like this. They say she can hear us, even though she seems asleep.”

Rivaille smiled. If he might cheer up Isabel with the twisted tale, at least something good might come out of the sorry affair.

* * *

Historia waited outside the cottage and watched Erwin’s figure grow larger as he returned from his walk, boots clogged from mud and hair tousled from the wind.

“Historia, what are you doing here, my dear?” He asked as he kissed her on both cheeks.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you hogging the cottage all to yourself and besides, I fancied some fresh seaside air myself. Come, let’s get inside out of this furious wind so we might actually be able to hear each other,” and she pulled him inside by the hand.

Boots were unlaced, Historia’s suitcase tucked away, fruit was fetched and finally they both sat either side of the little dining table whilst Erwin stretched out his legs, sore from a whole day of walking.

“It’s good to see you with a healthy glow in your cheeks,” Historia commented, “how have these last two weeks suited you?”

Erwin smiled, the salt-chapped skin of his lips rosier than usual, a clarity in his blue eyes that Historia hadn’t seen in a long time. He seemed almost like a different man entirely as if the blustery ocean air had swept straight through him and rearranged all that was in disarray.

“I don’t know where to start. Perhaps I should start by thanking you for getting me here.”

“You’re very welcome. You could hardly stay brooding in your bedroom forever.”

“It’s true, but that’s not the full extent of it. The journey to get here has taken much longer than these two weeks: more like my whole Life, and I have you to thank for much more than tipping me out of bed.”

Historia felt a blush flatter her cheeks, “you flatter me, Erwin.”

“I thought I ought to tell you how grateful I am, and how much your friendship has meant to me. I think I hardly ever tell you that. I hardly ever speak anything that’s on my mind or in my heart, and it has cost me dearly, and I’d like that to change.”

Historia reached out and placed her hand on Erwin’s shoulder, squeezing gently, “I can’t tell you how good it is to hear that. That’s partly why I’m here. When you didn’t come back after the first week, well, I thought you could use a friend to talk to.”

“Thank you.”

They made a meal out of the occasion. Erwin laid out some bread and cheese and went into the storage cupboard to fish out a half-decent bottle of wine. It was early evening yet, and the sun wouldn’t set until much later, and so the pair eased into the bright summer evening ready with food and drink to last them as long as they needed.

Historia watched Erwin with curiosity. His manner seemed lighter, as if much that was weighing him down had lifted. When they were settled at the table once more, the conversation flowed freely.

“There’s something I’ve never asked you: did you always know that you loved the fairer sex?” Erwin said.

“No, but then again, I hardly met any boys growing up, except for my brother’s friends and they were all nasty ragamuffins, the lot of them. I figured, when I was older and moved into larger social circles, I would meet a man who would sweep me off my feet, as in all the stories. When I went off to Paris, well, there I met a great many men quite ready to invite me for a dance, but not once did I get that feeling: the feeling of infatuation, of desire, of lust. And then I met Ymir, and from that first moment, I was captivated.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“In a way, it was. Falling in love with her was simple but figuring out how to make it work was hard. If you hadn’t accepted my proposal of marriage, well…you saved us, Erwin. And in that, I have  _ you  _ to thank.”

Erwin smiled, “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“From the way you phrased your question, I take it you always knew that you could only love men?”

“As soon as my body developed, the obscene imaginings began, and I knew. I thought it was the devil’s work; I thought it was punishment for something. All I’d ever heard of such men was that they were unspeakable; that they were sinners. I wanted rid of it, or at the least, to suppress my desires and try, as much as possible, to forget about them.

“If I hadn’t found the classics I might have gone on that way for my whole Life. But in the study of history, I learned that there was another way, that other societies had built a place for such men and women; that I might not be cursed for dreaming that I could have a friend to share my Life with and that that friend should be a man.

“My travels to Rome were in pursuit of others like myself. If you’d have asked me at the time I wouldn’t have said, but deep down, I was in pursuit of Love. Having that dream so cruelly destroyed took its toll. It’s taken me years to finally address the damage wreaked by my disastrous affair with Claudio. All that time, I carried the weight of that pain, and that self-hatred, and I didn’t say a word about it.”

“I hope you know that I’m here for you if you ever do need to talk.”

“I know, and I hope you know the same is true from me. You have no idea…when I met you, a year after Rome, it was like all the Hope had been ripped from me. And then I came to know you and Ymir, and I saw what the two of you had and I wanted nothing more than to see you both happy, at least. To see you living a Life together, I saw that it wasn’t impossible, and I just wanted…”

“…a friend of your own?”

Erwin nodded.

“I didn’t see any way that it could happen for me. You know, these last two weeks, I’ve been re-evaluating so much. Of the many things he said which stay with me, Rivaille accused me of living in a ‘perfect façade’. The Life I live now: I’ve just blindly followed the path that was handed to me. The same Life my father led: the same schools, the same education, the same house, the same office. I got married when society demanded I marry and I’m sure I appear to be the picture of success, I have it all. But what for?

“The reason things fell apart with Rivaille was that he couldn’t play pretend forever, not the way I do. I’m living a lie all the time, and at some point, he was fed up with it. Not just that, I was asking him to slot into my Life without a thought for what he wanted, for what was happening in his. And that was unfair of me. He was right, I do live a false Life, and I’m not happy. Historia, how can I have lived this Life so long and not realised I was unhappy?”

“It’s very human to turn a blind eye to the truths that are too difficult to face.”

“Well said.”

A gust of wind whistled through the cracks in the small window. The sky was seeping from blue into dark purple, clouds tinged pink and red as the sun slunk towards the horizon.

“Did you love him?” Historia asked.

“Yes,” replied Erwin.

“What will you do now?”

“In all honesty, I don’t know. It seemed a mountain as it was to unpick everything I’d kept locked away for so long. And now? I don’t know.”

“Well, I can help you brainstorm some ideas.”

Erwin smiled, “thank you.”

* * *

Three days after Rivaille had arrived in Paris, he and Furlan were sat, once more, at Isabel’s bedside. It was late in the morning and the pair were alternating between telling Isabel stories, recounting their favourite misadventures, or falling into long, half-dozing silences.

Rivaille watched dust motes swirl, caught by the sunlight beaming in through the tall windows. It was impossible to tell Isabel’s condition: she seemed the same as she had the first day he had arrived. He picked up the damp cloth at her bedside to wipe her forehead, as he had every hour they spent with her, but he stilled when he realised how cold her skin was.

He leaned close to her mouth, pressing his cheek against her lips to see if he could feel the faint exhalations of her feeble breath.

Nothing.

“Furlan, we need a nurse,” he said in a strained voice, “she’s not breathing. I think she’s…”

“I’ll get a nurse.”

The nurse was fetched, and she took Isabel’s wrist, holding her fingers there for a terrible minute as Furlan and Rivaille waited, staring it horror.

“I’m sorry,” said the nurse, “she’s gone.”

“What do you mean  _ gone?  _ No, she can’t be, she…she…” Rivaille stood, heart racing, tears hot in his eyes.

“I’m really sorry, but she’s passed on. I’ll give you both a minute, I have to get the doctor to sign off,” said the nurse, and left them quickly.

“ _ No no no no, it can’t be, it can’t…”  _ Rivaille was babbling, the words leaving his mouth hardly making sense and he clutched at Isabel’s hand willing her to somehow just  _ wake up _ , it couldn’t be, it couldn’t.

He couldn’t do this again. Why was he cursed to lose everyone he loved?

The rest of the day was a blur. Isabel was taken from them, wheeled off to the morgue. Furlan had to physically restrain Rivaille to stop him from following, and Rivaille kept trying to lash out at the nurses. Furlan fought to pull him away, out of the Hospital and that’s when Rivaille just collapsed onto the pavement on his hands and knees, pushing his face into the floor and letting out a hoarse scream of anger and anguish.

Furlan sat beside him, silent and weary.

They hardly knew what to do. Furlan retreated into himself, hardly awake though his body was still moving, whilst Rivaille was a mess of restless energy and anger. They didn’t go back to the apartment; neither of them could face it, not when she was gone, not when her laughter would never be heard within those walls again.

It was afternoon when Rivaille pulled them into a drinking house and by nightfall Furlan had passed out in the corner, but Rivaille was still going, using every dirty trick he knew to gamble himself more drinks, but it wasn’t enough. The weight of his terror and grief swarmed him and he did the only thing he knew: he fuelled it all into anger.

He smiled, bloody and manic when the first punch connected with his nose.  _ Finally _ , was all he could think. He’d been egging on the men in the bar all evening hoping for a response. Rivaille was unceremoniously hauled out back and the fight could begin.

Each hit was like being thrown out of his own body, the pain searing his senses: familiar, overwhelming, overriding everything else on his mind, the best escape he knew. Still, he surprised his attackers, he got in several hits, took down two of them completely, but he was drunk and outnumbered, and he reveled in oblivion is the World finally went black.

* * *

The answer greeted him, plain as day, when Erwin woke up one morning. Two days had passed since Historia had arrived, and they had passed the time walking along the coast and sharing stories and pieces of themselves which Erwin had thought he would never share or learn from another.

They didn’t speak about what should happen next, but suddenly Erwin knew the answer.

He had to go to Paris and find Rivaille. He didn’t know what could happen, and there was a high chance the man wouldn’t want to see him again, but at the least Erwin needed closure so that he could move on. Something didn’t sit right with the way Rivaille had left, and he needed to know what had happened.

Historia had brought with her the angry telegrams sent by Erwin’s office for his extended, unexplained absence. They would need an answer eventually and Erwin knew that he was standing at a crossroads: return to his old Life and carry on or wander into the far more dangerous territory of the unknown.

He told her what he must do later that day as they walked barefoot along the sandy beach by the shore. The wind whipped sand along their ankles, billowing Historia’s skirts out behind her.

“If you must go to Paris, you must go to Paris,” Historia said, “I was waiting to tell you, but Ymir received word from Jacques. Although he wasn’t able to reach Rivaille and his family, he did enclose their address. I have it with me at the cottage.”

“Thank you, that’ll make things easier once I get there. There’s something else I’ve decided too. I’m going to hand in my notice at my father’s company. I really have no idea what will happen beyond going to Paris and speaking to Rivaille, if he’ll even see me. And even if it doesn’t work out with him, I can’t stand the thought of coming back to the Life I had before.”

“This is a big step, Erwin. I’m proud of you. Whatever happens with Rivaille, I don’t think you’ll regret making this choice to leave your old Life behind.”

“But Historia, I do worry about my family: about  _ our  _ family. My decision here affects you, also, and I can’t make it without you understanding what it might change for you. I won’t do this if you don’t want me to..”

“Of course, it will change things for me, but Ymir and I will find a way, Erwin. Besides which, thanks to you and this marriage we share, Ymir and I have been able to be together these past few years without anyone being the wiser. I could hardly let this same marriage stop you from going and finding that companionship for yourself, whether that is with Rivaille or with someone else, one day. So  _ go.  _ The rest, we will figure out. You won’t be rid of my friendship that easily, Erwin Smith.”

He took her in his arms, hugged her close, warmth swallowing his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the lovely [@arc_turus ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arc__turus/pseuds/arc__turus)for help with historical details and feedback on this story as it has unfolded! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erwin arrives in Paris and accidentally makes two new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self-destructive behaviour, discussions of suicidal tendencies, self-harm and drugs.

**_July 1911_ **

Erwin climbed out of the cab and approached the grand mansion, marvelling at the impressive architecture. He had met Historia’s godmother Zoe only once, at their wedding, but he had never visited her Parisian home. For the last few years, Zoe had been living in Germany and she had only just returned to her native France. Historia had telephoned ahead and received enthusiastic permission for Erwin to stay with Zoe for as long as he needed.

The huge front door was opened by a well-dressed butler in a grey three-piece suit, “You are Erwin Smith, yes?” said the man.

“Yes, I am. I believe Zoe is expecting me.”

“Yes, right this way,” and Erwin was led into the intimidating house.

He was told to wait in a large parlour with a high ceiling and lots of light spilling through the tall windows. As he waited, his eye was drawn to the large painting hanging on one of the walls. A figure, their back turned, was in the process of getting undressed and the artist had elegantly captured the feeling of gentle, sensual movement: something about the figure’s pose implied that they were getting undressed for a lover.

The brushstrokes were loose, the lines blurry, colours brighter than life. Erwin was suddenly reminded of Historia’s latest series of paintings featuring Ymir and Rivaille. On a whim, he approached the painting and was startled to see a familiar signature at the bottom right corner: _Historia Reiss._

He wondered what his friend had been like when she had stayed in Paris: only nineteen, fresh-faced and naïve. Perhaps Ymir was the figure in the painting.

Footsteps interrupted his musings. Erwin turned and found a man in the doorway. He wore spectacles, sported a large bristly moustache and was dressed in a tweed suit; the kind that a professor might wear.

There was something strangely familiar about the man’s wide, energetic eyes and the quirk of his mouth.

“Erwin! So good to see you again!” cried the man, whose voice was familiar and higher than Erwin would have expected, “Don’t you recognise me? I’ll give you a minute…”

Erwin frowned, “…Zoe?”

“The one and only! What do you think of my new look?”

“Highly convincing. The moustache is a good touch. It looks incredibly realistic.”

“Why _thank you_ , I paid good money for it, although I had to invent a new type of glue to attach it to my face: one that wouldn’t leave a ghastly rash with prolonged use. Come now, it’s a travesty we’ve never spent time together and Moblit’s asked Cook to lay us out a lovely meal. You must tell me all your news, and I can tell you about my time in Germany!”

Erwin hardly had time to process his host’s interesting new appearance as he was whisked off to the dining room, his bags taken to his room.

“If it helps,” said the man gently as they walked, “you can call me Hans. That’s the name I usually go by these days. That’s who I’ve been these past few years in Germany.”

“Alright. Well, nice to meet you, Hans. Thank you for having me.”

“My pleasure,” Hans said and beamed wide.

Over lunch, Erwin tried to explain the reason for his visit. Historia had told him before that her godmother was an ally; the only member of Historia’s family and social circle who knew about and welcomed Historia’s relationship with Ymir, but Erwin was unfamiliar with speaking freely about who he was. Erwin was so used to hiding that it wasn’t until the end of lunch, when faced with a direct question from Hans that he managed to explain himself.

“Historia wasn’t specific about the reason for your visit. Not that there need be a reason, or that you need share it with me, but I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

Erwin took a deep breath, “I’m here to find someone: my former valet, a man named Rivaille Ackerman. He left in a hurry…well, we didn’t leave things on the best of terms and I wanted to find him and…talk. It sounds rather foolish now that I say it like that.”

“Not at all, it’s a good a reason as any to visit our sweet city: the city of Love.”

Erwin was sure a flush coloured his cheeks, “what makes you think this is about Love?”

“A hunch. Am I right? You need not worry; all are welcome in my house.”

“Yes, you’re right. He was more than just my valet. Historia told me that I could count you as an ally. She told me that you know of her relationship with Ymir.”

“Exactly so. It would be rather hypocritical of me to mind, wouldn’t it?” Hans’ eyes twinkled, and Erwin wondered at his history, “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

The rest of lunch passed amicably, and Erwin was warmed to find that he might have made a friend.

* * *

The address Jacques had provided was in the worst part of the city. Erwin could scarcely believe the buildings were habitable, judging by the smell, dirt and extent of decay. The gaps between buildings were filled with tent-like structures made of blankets and scrap wood.

Erwin was forced to halt his brisk pace as he had to ask for directions. His French was passable but understanding the rapid directions he was given proved challenging, especially given the colloquial nature of the locals’ speech.

Finally, he found himself climbing the tall stairs of what he hoped was the right building.

The door swung open just as he was about to knock, and a skinny man with light brown hair and grey eyes almost crashed into Erwin. They both jumped, startled by the other.

“…Uh. Can I help you?” Asked the man, narrowing his eyes with confusion.

“Hello, I’m looking for a man named Rivaille Ackerman. Is this the right address?”

Mistrust was clear on the man’s face, “Who might you be?”

“My name is Erwin, Erwin Smith. Please, is he here?”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise and understanding, “No, he’s not, and if you’ll excuse me, I need to be somewhere,” and he pulled the door closed behind him, brushing past Erwin and making his way down the stairs.

Erwin followed him, “now wait just one minute. Please, can you at least tell him I dropped by?” It was a challenge to keep up with the man.

“I’m not sure he wants to see you right now,” he said, whipping around a bannister and reaching the ground floor. Erwin followed him as he exited the building and walked briskly away along the grimy pavement.

“Is that what he said? Please, I just want to know that he’s alright. You know what, if he doesn’t want to see me, he doesn’t want to see me, but is he alright? Could you tell me that?”

The man’s pace slowed, and Erwin was more comfortably able to keep up with him.

“Look, if you’re just here to chastise him for quitting his job, now’s really not a good time.”

“That’s not it at all. I just need to know what really happened. His leaving was so sudden, and he didn’t even explain why.”

Erwin was startled as the man came to a halt, “wait, he didn’t tell you? About Isabel?”

“Isabel?” Erwin asked, perplexed.

“ _Merde,_ that boy is such an _idiot_. He needs to learn to start telling people things instead of just running. I really thought he at least mentioned before quitting his job,” the man ran a hand over his face and folded his arms, “Isabel is our sister. Was.”

“Was? Oh Lord, I didn’t know…are you Rivaille’s brother?”

“Yes. My name is Furlan.”

“What happened?”

“Isabel has always been ill. There’s been a lot of near-misses, but three weeks ago she had another accident and…I took her to the hospital. The doctor said it wasn’t looking good and I sent a telegram to Rivaille, he came back immediately.”

Erwin’s heart almost stopped beating in his chest. No wonder Rivaille reacted the way he had.

Furlan continued, “she passed five days later.”

“My heartfelt condolences,” Erwin said quietly.

“Yeah, well…” Furlan said, a dark, heavy look creeping over his handsome face. Then, he visibly changed his posture and rolled back his shoulders as if to shake off the grief.

“Are you really just here to talk with Rivaille? You came all this way just to see him?” Furlan asked, eyes meeting Erwin’s.

“Yes. I…I don’t know what he told you-“

“I know. About what happened between you two. His side of it, anyway, which I’m starting to suspect was a somewhat biased recollection.”

Erwin nodded. It seemed Hans wouldn’t be the last person he would be honest about his relationship with today. Furlan sighed, a slight frown in the set of his eyebrows, “Alright, look. Whatever you two shared, I think at the least Rivaille respects you. Maybe he’ll listen to you. Lord knows he won’t listen to me.”

“Listen to me? What do you mean? Where is he? Is he alright?”

“It’s easier to just show you. Follow me,” and with that Furlan turned on his heel and led Erwin into the depths of the dark underbelly of the city.

* * *

Erwin tried not to think too much about why the floors of the dingy underground den were stained with splotches of dark red. The surface was sticky underfoot, and he thought he saw a rat scurrying along a wall into the shadowy corners. It was difficult to see, but the smell of unwashed, decaying bodies was overwhelming.

“Please tell me Rivaille isn’t here,” Erwin whispered. Furlan didn’t answer and Erwin’s heart thumped quickly and painfully. The occasional figure was slumped in a corner or on an old, half-eaten mattress and whether they were unconscious or dead Erwin couldn’t tell.

Why would Rivaille be in a place like this? He prayed this wasn’t their destination, that Furlan was only leading him through what Erwin was suspecting to be an illegal opium den.

He almost tripped when Furlan came to a halt. Erwin didn’t understand why, at first, and Furlan made no explanation. That’s when Erwin realised there was someone lying before them, half-hidden under a burlap sack.

Heart in his mouth, Erwin bent down to peel back the material. He gasped when he saw the familiar head of black hair and slender jawline. Unable to breathe, Erwin turned the figure over. There was no doubt about it.

It was Rivaille.

He was almost unrecognisable. His small figure even thinner, skin dark with bruises. His face was purple, an ugly black eye colouring the right side of his face.

“Rivaille?” Erwin asked, his voice trembling, “Rivaille, can you hear me? We need to get you out of here.”

Erwin grasped his face and felt Furlan kneeling beside him, still silent and heavy. Erwin pressed two fingers to the side of Rivaille’s neck and was horrified to feel how slow his heartbeat was. He tapped at Rivaille’s face but there was no response.

“How long has he been like this?” Erwin asked Furlan.

“He was conscious when I last came to talk to him yesterday. I tried to convince him to come back with me, but he wasn’t himself, he wouldn’t listen, tried to lash out at me. I figured he’d get the grief out of his system eventually and it would be fine.”

“Furlan, he needs a doctor. Right now.”

“Shit. Really? Can you carry him?”

Erwin was already lifting Rivaille into his arms, “Quickly,” Erwin said, “follow me.”

* * *

Rivaille looked so small in the huge, fluffy bed.

“The doctor said he’ll need to sleep it off, but now that his stomach has been pumped and his wounds bandaged, he’ll recover,” said Hans, standing in the door.

Erwin nodded, feeling a tightness in his chest unwind, “Hans. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you both to sit with him. Oh, and Furlan, feel free to stay as long as you like. As you’ve seen, there’s plenty of space in this house.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s much appreciated.”

Hans nodded and left them both to sit beside Rivaille’s bed, each exhausted and heavy with concern. They were both quiet for a long time. Eventually, Furlan buried his face in his arms, doubling over the bed.

“I didn’t know it was so bad,” Furlan murmured eventually, “he’s never overdone it before.”

“He’s done this before?”

“No…well. Yes. Not like this,” Furlan sighed, turning his face to the side to look at his brother, “he was like this when we first met him.”

“Wait, aren’t you brothers?”

“Not by blood. Isabel and I were street urchins just like him. When we met him, he’d just lost his only friend. That’s the only time I’ve seen him this bad. There were other times where he’d go out looking for a fight, an escape, but he’d get it out of his system eventually. I think it was his way of coping.

“Isabel used to say it was because his heart was so big, hidden away behind the snarky act he’s got going on. She would say that really, he would only run so hard because he was afraid of how much he cared: how much it hurt to care, how much it hurt to lose someone he cared for. Now here he is, the bastard, almost leaving me alone just after losing Isabel.”

As Furlan stared at his brother, tears in his eyes. Erwin and Furlan sat together for a long time by Rivaille’s bedside.

* * *

When Rivaille opened his eyes, he thought he’d never felt so terrible in his Life. Everything hurt; body battered and blue from all the fights he’d instigated. His throat was scratchy and acidic, but he had no memory of throwing up. The last few days were a blur, lots of it missing.

As his eyes focused, he stared at the tiny swirling ornaments tiling the high ceiling. His hands clasped the sheets, softer than any bed he’d ever slept in. Where on earth was he?

“Rivaille!” cried a familiar voice, and a head of light-brown hair was suddenly filling his vision. Rivaille groaned as he was gripped in a fierce hug by Furlan, the force of it painful against his bruised and tender body.

He tried and failed to get his voice to work for a moment, but finally managed to ask what had happened and where he was.

“The house of a Mr. Hans Lindemann. Erwin and I brought you here. You needed a doctor.”

“Hans Lindemann, who the fuck is that? And wait…wait,” Rivaille was suddenly much more awake, trying and failing to sit upright, “did you say _Erwin?”_

Furlan nodded, “he came looking for you,” he said quietly, “lucky thing too. I wouldn’t have been able to carry you halfway across Paris.”

“He did _what?”_ Rivaille gawped.

Furlan rolled his eyes and smiled, “I’m glad you’re ok, brother. You had me worried there.”

“I’m glad too…oh God,” and Rivaille felt hot tears slide down his cheeks, “Furlan…I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…I didn’t mean to go so far…I didn’t want to _actually_ die…I just wanted it to stop _hurting_ so much…I, I…”

“It’s ok, I’m here. We can get through this, together.”

Furlan held him tightly as he wept and wept.

* * *

After a few days, Rivaille asked to speak with Erwin. He went to Rivaille’s room and stood awkwardly beside the bed, eventually taking a seat on it.

“ _Salut_ ,” said Rivaille awkwardly.

“ _Salut,_ ” replied Erwin. They were both stiff and uncertain with each other.

“Furlan told me what happened. I should thank you.”

“Of course. I’m told you’ll be going back to your apartment this evening.”

“Yes, I still need to heal. I’d rather do so in my own Home.”

“Naturally.”

A long, awkward few minutes passed. Erwin tried to pose a question several times, failing each time. Rivaille opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, looking uncertain.

“Look, I-“ said Rivaille at the same time that Erwin said, “Rivaille, I should-“

They shared a guilty smile, but some of the tension dissipated after that, “After you,” said Erwin with a nod.

“I feel there’s a lot I need to say. That I need to explain, but I’m…I don’t have the words yet.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Erwin said, “you need to time to heal. As long as you need. We can talk another time.”

“But won’t you go back to London soon?”

Erwin shook his head, “No, actually. I sort of…well. I guess I took a leaf out of your book.”

“What do you mean?”

“I quit my job.”

“You _what?”_

“Yeah,” Erwin smiled, ducking his head, “Nothing’s ever felt more _right_. Anyway, now. Well, I don’t know quite what my plan is but, for now anyway, I’ll be spending some time here, with Hans. Figuring things out.”

Rivaille nodded slowly, “oh. Alright then. So, you’ll stay in Paris for a while?”

“Yes. I will.”

“Huh. Well. In that case, it would be nice. To talk. Some other time.”

“It would. For what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re alright.”

Before leaving the room, Erwin briefly clasped Rivaille’s hand and shared with him a small smile: a gesture of friendship, a hint of what the future could hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gna try and smash out the last few chapters of this story before I get too distracted by the other stories I have been writing! I'm going to shamelessly plug the other Eruri AU WIPs I have ongoing including a [Cyberpunk AU ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432601/chapters/72301386) and an [ATLA AU ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592466/chapters/64835449).
> 
> Bit of a heavy chapter, this one, but now that Erwin's had his 'go off and reflect on his demons' time, Rivaille needs that time and space too...


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finale time

**_August 1911_ **

Erwin had never had so much free time in his Life. The freedom scared him at first. He really had no idea what he would do next, or where he should go, or what his future looked like. To his surprise, after the initial terror of uncertainty, he grew into the ambiguity with relish.

He read. He read as he’d never read before: for the pleasure of it, sometimes lost in a particular book for days on end. Hans’ library was extensively well-stocked, and Hans proved to be incredibly intelligent. After a day of wandering the cluttered, vibrant streets of Paris and settling himself on a bench somewhere to read or ponder, Erwin would return to Hans’ mansion and the two would discuss the day’s discoveries.

Hans, Erwin was growing to suspect, was something of a genius.

“Erwin! Just the man I was hoping to see. Back from your meander along the Seine?” Hans was in his overalls, hands black with soot and carrying a strange chunk of metal with tubes and wires sticking out of it.

“Yes, just got back, are you alright to carry that?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes, perfectly fine. Why don’t you come and have a look?” A manic, wide-eyed gleam entered Hans’ eyes, “I’ve _finally_ got it to work, you have to come see…”

Erwin trailed after his friend, the strange device in his arms emitting the odd whizz and whur. Hans led him to his ‘inventing space’, a place Erwin usually avoided for fear of stepping on something explosive or ruining an experiment.

The smell of gasoline and soot filled the air, and Erwin wasn’t too surprised to see the butler and all-round-handyman, Moblit, in a similar state to Hans: hair untidy, skin smudged with soot, workman’s overalls stained with grease.

Hans was jittery with excitement as he dramatically led Erwin around the corner, under an overhanging pipe, through a jet of steam and towards the strange machine he had been working on. It looked to Erwin like some kind of engine, but it was huge: easily twice the size of the ones he’d glimpsed under the bonnet of a model T. It had a V-shaped configuration and multiple protrusions sticking out from the top.

“Impressive. Although I must admit, I don’t entirely know what I’m looking at.”

“Ok, _ok_ , so let me explain. You’ve driven a Ford right? Well they’ve got a standard, inline, four-piston cylinder engine. At most, you’re looking at a maximum of 45 miles per hour you can get out of those. And that’s brilliant, that’s amazing, that’s plenty for the average family man and his needs, but _this:_ this is what comes next. I’ve done it. I’ve found a way to integrate _eight_ cylinders into an engine. It increases maximum power output by a factor of three! With this, why, you might even power a whole aeroplane for extended periods of time. We’re talking real speed here.”

All Erwin could do was stare. His hunch had been right: Hans was a genius.

“You’ll take the world by storm yet, Hans,” was all Erwin could say. He didn’t fully understand what he was looking at, but he knew it would be just as ground-breaking as Hans claimed.

He’d never known anyone like Hans. The man seemed to know exactly who he was, and what his passions were, and he was unapologetically himself. Erwin realised he had a growing desire to find that same confidence for himself.

Over whiskeys that evening, after many more hours of Hans chattering excitedly about the new engine, talk turned to the future, and Erwin finally found himself asking the questions that had lingered over the last few weeks.

“Did you always know? That you wanted to live as a man, I mean,” Erwin asked.

Hans tilted his head and took a pensive sip of his whiskey. He was sat with his legs over the side of his armchair, his usual sprawl, “Not exactly. I’ve always known what my passion was, and that was science. I’ve had enough money that normal societal constraints didn’t seem to reach me, so I dressed how I liked, acted as I liked. People are happy to accept all kinds of eccentricities if one is fabulously wealthy. And then, Moblit and I moved to Germany. That was something of a turning point.”

Erwin raised an eyebrow at the phrasing, wondering, not for the first time, if there was something more than friendship between Hans and his butler.

Hans continued, “I believe that the road to authenticity of the self is inevitable. Until we are living as we were meant to be, as we truly are, we will never be happy. For me, the last piece of my puzzle was that move to Germany. Initially, I just wanted to get some of my ideas patented. That was all, at first. And if getting things patented was twelve times easier as a man, I wasn’t against a little role-play. But after living as a man for while I realised that it felt…better. Better than as I’d lived before. I don’t know if this makes any sense.”

Erwin nodded, “I think it does, even if I can’t say I’ve shared that feeling.”

The two men sat a while, lost in musings and memories. It was a fair summer evening outside, and the tall bay windows were open, letting in the warm air and happy twittering of birds as the sky finally sank into delicate indigo.

“Have you any more of an idea of what you want to do next?” Asked Hans.

Erwin sighed, “I’m not sure.”

“Well, what is it that you enjoy?”

“I enjoyed Cambridge. I enjoy reading. Learning about and talking about history and the classics. Why, I should love to spend my days doing that.”

“Then there you are. Why not do it?”

“Study classics again? It’s hardly a career.”

“It could be. You could become a professor.”

“A professor? Well, that would be…I’d have to do a doctorate.”

“So, do a doctorate then. The Sorbonne has an excellent classics department, or so I’ve heard.”

“But I can’t just-“

“Can’t you?” Hans said, raising an eyebrow.

Erwin gave the idea some thought. With Cambridge under his belt, he didn’t doubt he could qualify for a doctorate, but he wouldn’t earn anything substantial, not for some time anyway. It might be years before he could become a professor, and only if he passed successfully through the various academic ranks. But other than that, why not? He had enough saved up to cover living costs for a few years, and Historia had inherited a small fortune with which to care for herself and Ymir.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he could do something like this: completely change the course of his life just through the will to change. He really could do it. If he wanted to.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone at the Sorbonne, would you Hans?” Erwin asked. He received a dazzling smile in response.

* * *

Rivaille leaned against the rough brick of the chimney stack and let the familiar burn of cigarette smoke fill his lungs as he watched the birds circle overhead, their cries marking the end of the long summer evening.

Tiles clicked against each other as a figure emerged over the edge of the roof, making his way unsteadily and carefully towards Rivaille over the uneven surface.

Furlan grinned, “I did it! Managed to snag some beer from Mama Hamish’ place next door.”

Rivaille wrinkled his nose, “ _fantastique,_ more watered-down piss.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Furlan sat beside him and opened the bottle against the edge of the chimney, “this view gets me every time. Deserves a drink, don’t you think?”

Rivaille wordlessly accepted the bottle, grimacing at the sour taste. Before them, the city sprawled: cluttered, dirty, ruthless, loud, _alive_. Home. He’d missed this. Gas lamps were being lit all around the city as the daylight gently faded. From their vantage point, it was a beautiful display. The great spires of churches flaring into life again, heavy apartment blocks with their narrow balconies, music spilling out the open windows, laughter, and dancing filling the streets.

Their feet were sore from a day’s work. Rivaille had started serving tea again at the little tea shop on the high street where Furlan had worked for the last few years. He found that he really liked it: the work was simple and steady, he knew what was expected and the snarky owner of the tea shop was a reasonable and practical man.

He realised that this was alright. This was his Life, and he’d never thought he’d be here. Growing up, he hadn’t thought he’d make it to his twenties, let alone be living clean and off the streets.

The ache of loss was still heavy and raw, but he was busy now, and that helped. He and Furlan had to look out for each other, and together they found a way to cope. It would still overwhelm him at moments. He’d be halfway to work and be caught up in some smell: the waft of fresh loaves from the bakery, and then he’d suddenly be unable to bite back tears, the memories coming thick and fast.

Isabel was still there, in the apartment. Traces of her. But slowly, as the weeks passed, Rivaille realised there might come a day when the heaviness would ease. She would have wanted them both to keep living. To remember, but still move on.

“It’s funny,” said Rivaille, stubbing out his cigarette butt, “so much shit can happen, and you can still come up here and sit on a rooftop and everything is still just as beautiful.”

“She loved evenings like this, up here.”

Rivaille smiled, “she’d tell us what kind of birds those are, up there. They still all look the same to me.”

“I can’t tell the difference either.”

“Hard to believe she’s really gone.”

“She’ll never truly be gone. We carry her with us. We remember her, we talk about her, and then she’ll never truly be gone.”

Rivaille passed back the beer, and they watched the evening slip into night and the circling birds slowly disappeared, one by one, until only the stars remained.

* * *

**_September 1911_ **

It was a beautiful summer’s day. Rivaille stood by the Seine, flat cap in his hand, and let the wind tousle his hair. He squinted as sunlight bounced off the rippling water, blinding him, overly bright, wonderful, and warm on his face.

For a large man, Erwin was surprisingly quiet. It wasn’t until the man was standing right next to him that Rivaille noticed him.

“A beautiful day,” Erwin said, gesturing to the river before them.

“One of the nicer ones. Thank you for meeting me.”

“Of course.”

“Let’s walk,” and they did. Over the last few months, Rivaille had taken up walking. He knew all the best routes through the city, the best places for a quiet conversation, the quietest spots to be alone, the most populous areas good for people-watching. There had been a lot to think about.

They didn’t speak about the real things, at first. It was almost like they were meeting for the first time, swapping small talk about what was happening in their lives, commenting on recent happenings, observing the city around them.

The air was heady and warm with promise, sweet with the scent of summer foods, light with the echo of merriment. Rivaille felt as if a lifetime had passed since they had walked that fateful day by the Thames in London. This was familiar, yet foreign at the same time. So much had changed, and Rivaille wasn’t sure what to do with the strange queasiness in his stomach.

Finally, they came to a stop at a small park by the river. A young couple was curled up against each other on a picnic blanket, and several barefoot children ran in the grass, giggling at the harsh words of the women minding them. Erwin and Rivaille settled on a bench away from the others and looked out over the sparkling river.

The small talk died away.

“Erwin, I want to apologise. For everything,” Rivaille hung his head, regret and shame surging through him, “I’m sorry for lashing out at you. For running away. For not being honest with you. For not being honest with myself. I… I was afraid. I thought it was…Isabel’s passing made it easy for me to push away everything that happened, to shift the blame, to not think about it. But really, I was running away before she passed because I was afraid.”

He couldn’t look at Erwin as he laid out the vulnerable truth of himself, and Erwin took the hint, keeping his eyes fixed on the river.

“What were you afraid of?” Erwin’s voice was gentle, though his words were dangerous.

Rivaille swallowed. He shut his eyes to steady himself.

“That night, after the circus. Nothing’s ever scared me as much as the way you looked at me when you…when we… you know,” he blushed. Never before had he been shy to mention sex.

“It’s ok,” said Erwin, “Thank you for telling me. For explaining. For apologising. It means a lot.”

“I owed you as much.”

“Rivaille, I also need to apologise. You were right about so much. My World was small and false and I had no right to expect you to fit into it, I should’ve asked you what you wanted. I never asked, and I never spoke about all the things I should have.

“Rivaille,” Erwin turned towards him, and hesitantly Rivaille met his gaze, “you have changed my Life. I was half-awake before I met you. You challenged me to find out who I was, and thanks to you I might one day figure that out. And I’m trying, now, to start being honest and to talk about the things that matter.

“I needed to tell you this: that I want you in my Life. I want to get to know you, slowly, in a real way, and take my time about it. I want your company, and your friendship. That’s the truth. That’s what I needed you to know.”

Rivaille was surprised and confused to feel the tears well in his eyes. He blinked them away, tearing his gaze from Erwin’s and looked back out over the water, unsure if he was really hearing what he was hearing, heart nervous and shaking in his chest like it was about to break free of its constraints. What was this feeling?

It was a stupid question. He knew what it was.

Underneath it, he felt that same terror he’d felt that night at the circus, that same terror he’d been running from for so long, that same terror that had caused him to lash out and try and push this infuriating man away.

As Erwin stared at him, heart in his hands, Rivaille realised all that Erwin had risked just to be here. His job, his nice simple Life, his place in society, his Home country. This was not the man Rivaille had known before.

He came to a realisation. If Erwin could be that brave, then so could he.

“Erwin…you’ve seen me at my worst. Are you really sure you want to be with me? What if it doesn’t work out? What if…”

“I think it’s worth the risk. I _want_ to take this risk. Do you?”

Through the chaos within him, through the fear, through the urge to flee, Rivaille realised that he had his answer. It was like the soft glow of a lamp in a dark room, a promise. Hope. Courage. Maybe it had always been there, but he hadn’t noticed.

He took Erwin’s hand in his own and turned to face him on the bench, unable to stop a tear breaking free as he drew the man closer.

“Yes. I do,” Rivaille whispered, and then he closed the distance between them. Their lips met, soft and gentle, and a soaring exhilaration rose within him.

Where anyone could see them, Erwin and Rivaille sat on their bench by the river and kissed sweetly.

Stretching out before them, a new future opened up: bright, and full of Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! Our two idiots finally reunited! Next chapter will be an Epilogue (with smut, of course), I hope the journey has been worth it! Thank you for sticking with me til the end <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue! Warnings for smut <3

**_September 1912 – One Year Later_ **

It was a short walk back from the University and the day was warm, perhaps the last warm day before Autumn would descend upon Paris. Erwin adjusted his small, circular spectacles (which were becoming a permanent accessory) and gazed with pride at the bookshop before him.

 _‘La Belle Vie’_ , declared the sign above the shop in an elegant script. An unoriginal name, but Historia had loved it and Ymir hadn’t wanted to waste time delaying the decision. From within the cluttered bookshop, Erwin could hear Ymir’s voice and glimpsed the tall woman leaning close to a customer as she talked them through different literary options. She wore a dark purple dress with a low neckline which suited her immensely and Erwin tilted his head, wondering if it was new.

 _La Belle Vie_ was not just a bookshop. The elderly owner who had sold it to Historia had also owned the abandoned shop unit next door, and it had been relatively easy work to unblock the door adjoining the two and open up an entirely new space.

Now, circular tables spilled out onto the pavement, the scent of coffee warmed the air, and a familiar figure walked out of the café with a cloth slung over his shoulder. Furlan kissed Erwin on both cheeks in greeting.

“Erwin, you’re back!” said Furlan in French, “We’re just closing up, but I can do the rest by myself. Rivaille said he wanted to change before heading out.”

“Excellent, I’ll take him off your hands. How was business today?”

“Busy! Historia was right, adding the café was a brilliant idea. People buy more books if they can sit and peruse them for a bit first. Had a few would-be poets in today, sat for hours drinking coffee and roping Rivaille and myself into lengthy existential chats. Certainly, more interesting characters here compared to the tea shop we worked before. I can’t complain.”

“That’s good to hear. I should also get ready, I’ll see you later, yes?”

“Yes, I’ll meet you at the gallery.”

Erwin ducked inside the café and found Rivaille in the back, washing dishes. He didn’t announce his presence immediately, content to watch his partner as he worked. Rivaille’s shirt sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were deep in the frothy hot water. His hair had grown longer and fell in bangs on either side of his face, dark strands framing his pale, sharp jawline.

“You gonna stare at me all day?” Rivaille finally said, turning to raise an eyebrow at Erwin.

“Just admiring the view.”

“Oh, really? Well, let me just finish these and then you can do more than just admire…” Rivaille grinned.

“Sounds like a deal,” Erwin stepped in close until his front was flush with Rivaille’s back, and he bent to press a kiss to the back of Rivaille’s neck, delighted when he felt the man shiver.

“Oi, I said dishes _first_ ,” complained Rivaille. The door suddenly swung open and Furlan walked in carrying circular tray full of dirty cups. Erwin stepped away, but Furlan turned an unimpressed look on them both.

“I can do the rest, Rivaille, really. Just please, for the love of God, don’t fuck in our café, ok? I work here too. I don’t want the workspace _contaminated._ ”

Rivaille flicked some foamy water in Furlan’s direction, and he yelped, ducking for cover behind the counter, re-emerging to glare daggers at his brother.

“Don’t worry brother, we were _just_ about to head upstairs and I was going to-“

“NO. I don’t need to know what kind of weird bedroom activities you two are into,” and Furlan pushed Rivaille away from the sink so that he could take over, shooing the couple out of the door towards the stairs.

Erwin was still smiling as Rivaille dragged him towards their flat and fumbled for the key. They lived in the small one-bedroom flat above the café, and as Rivaille pushed the door open, Erwin felt the sweet satisfaction of being Home. It was always meticulously tidy, Rivaille made sure of that, and he had drilled Erwin in the art of cleaning and cooking.

Half the living room area was lined with bookshelves, but already they were filling up quickly and Rivaille was sure that by the time Erwin really did become a professor they might be drowning in them. Living above Ymir’s bookshop didn’t help the situation.

Erwin yelped as Rivaille wrapped a hand around his tie and yanked him down into a kiss, mouth hot and hungry. He laughed against his partner’s lips, “not wasting any time, I see?”

“Do you have any idea-“ said Rivaille between kisses, “how warm it’s been today?” Rivaille pulled Erwin towards his desk in the corner, “I’ve been half-aroused all day-“ he pushed Erwin down into his desk chair, “just from the humidity,” he straddled Erwin, hand still curled tightly around his tie, and proceeded to devour his mouth, other hand wound tight around the back of Erwin’s head to keep him in place.

When Rivaille finally pulled apart so they could breathe, Erwin’s eyes fluttered open and his pupils were blown wide. Rivaille was still wearing his uniform, and he knew exactly how much Erwin liked the simple cut of the tight-fitting white shirt, especially with the top few buttons undone to reveal his clavicle.

“Did you know,” Rivaille continued, leaning close to run his lips along the shell of Erwin’s ear, “back in your house in London, I used to fantasize about you fucking me over the desk in your study. Then every time you would work there, you would remember what you did to me. A desk not unlike this one, in fact…”

Rivaille leaned back and raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge clear on his face.

“Get. Undressed. Now,” Erwin managed through gritted teeth.

“Yes, _sir._ ”

Erwin breathed in sharply and Rivaille laughed, hands already undoing the buttons of his own shirt. He made a show of it, teasing Erwin as he stripped, talking to him, delighting in the effect his words had, delighting in how well he had come to know the man and how to get him worked up in _exactly_ all the best ways.

By the time his shirt was off, Erwin lost his patience and lifted Rivaille off his lap and onto the desk behind him, standing between Rivaille’s legs. His gaze was hot and intense as he reached for Rivaille’s belt buckle and tore it out of the belt loops with more force than was necessary.

He pulled at Rivaille’s trousers and drawers and knelt as Rivaille wriggled to help get them off. Still full clothed, still wearing his glasses, Erwin stayed on his knees on the floor and wrapped one arm around Rivaille’s thigh, the other around the small of his back.

“What are you-“ Rivaille asked, but was cut off as Erwin’s breath ghosted along his inner thigh towards his cock. The sight of Erwin on his knees was almost more than he could bear. Erwin knew how much Rivaille liked how he looked with his glasses on, and how much Rivaille enjoyed a bit of role-play.

“Have you been good, Rivaille?” Erwin asked, lips skirting over the sensitive skin of Rivaille’s cock. His eyes fluttered.

“Yes, _sir_.”

“Do you deserve a reward?”

“Definitely, _sir_.”

Looking pleased with his responses, Erwin maintained eye contact as he slowly, carefully, swallowed down Rivaille’s cock. Rivaille groaned, struggling to stop his eyes from rolling back into his head because the way Erwin was looking at him was just too arousing, and he didn’t want to miss it. Erwin really was a master at sucking dick, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy it, even when Rivaille pulled on his hair and was a little rough, something that Rivaille had never been able to understand.

His lips moved with confidence over Rivaille’s shaft, and he couldn’t help but tangle his hands into the short strands of Erwin’s fair hair, trying not to let his hips buck upwards into the warm heat.

“Erwin, if you keep doing that I’m not going to last,” he managed to say between strained gasped.

Erwin pulled off his dick with a wet sound, a line of spit trailing from his red-raw lips, “Go on then, it’ll take the edge off. You always recover quickly,” and Erwin dived back in again, tongue doing terrible things around Rivaille’s head, pulling at the foreskin.

Not long after, he was coming with a wordless cry, and Erwin kept his lips locked firm around Rivaille, swallowing down his come and licking his lips. Rivaille shook his head as his body went boneless, allowing Erwin’s arms to support him against the desk, “your mouth…fuck. Every time. How do you even _do_ that…”

Erwin grinned, pressing a kiss to Rivaille’s stomach, a familiar gleam in his eye.

“Turn around,” he said gently. Rivaille did as he was told.

Erwin’s hands ran over his spine, across his shoulder blades, into his hair, and then lower, fingers raising goosebumps over Rivaille’s arse. He paused.

“Oil’s on the bedside table,” Rivaille murmured, as Erwin's hands disappeared. He pushed himself up onto his elbows to watch, half-aroused, half-amused as Erwin walked over to their bedroom. When he re-emerged he held up the small bottle, victorious, and swayed his hips as he walked back towards Rivaille who was still naked and bent over his desk.

“You look _amazing_ like that,” Erwin murmured, voice awed.

“And you’re wearing too many clothes. Are you going to fuck me already?”

Erwin chuckled, “patience, patience…”

Rivaille rolled his eyes, enjoying the sight of Erwin unbuckling his belt and unthreading his tie. He was naked by the time he had circled the desk and was once more standing behind Rivaille. As he worked Rivaille open with his fingers he was teasing, taking his time, much to Rivaille’s impatience. By the time he withdrew his fingers Rivaille was cursing darkly at him, writhing before him on the table, egging him on.

He went quiet the second Erwin started pushing in, his World narrowing to the overwhelming, _delicious_ sensation of being filled. The edge of the desk dug into his hipbones as Erwin thrust into him all the way, and Rivaille choked on his own breath, temporarily unable to think at all.

As Erwin picked up the pace, it was all Rivaille could do to stretch out his hands and hold on to the far edge of the desk, reduced to an unintelligible mess of French nonsense. One of Erwin’s hands threaded into Rivaille’s hair, pulling on it painfully and Rivaille hissed, loving the edge of pain mixed with pleasure, eyes rolling back into his head as he was overwhelmed by the sensation, thrusts pushing his already-hard cock against the rough wood.

Just when Rivaille thought he might come a second time, Erwin stilled. Rivaille whined needily, glaring darkly at his partner, hissing when Erwin pulled out and stepped away, “You piece of shit,” he growled, but Erwin was already dragging him towards their room, and it was all Rivaille could do to stumble after him on unsteady legs.

Erwin pulled him down onto the bed but stopped Rivaille from straddling him, “No, now I want _you_ inside _me_ ,” Erwin, voice low and dark. Rivaille stilled. _Oh_ , he thought, _yes_ , _fuck yes,_ and he pulled Erwin into a kiss as he fumbled with the jar of oil, body jittery and feather-light.

He understood Erwin’s thinking as they pulled apart and Erwin hooked his legs up and over Rivaille’s shoulders so that Rivaille had easy access to work his fingers into him. This way, they would both last longer, and draw the pleasure out. He worked quickly, sped on by Erwin’s distracting hitches in breath and the beautiful red flush that was spreading right down his neck and over his chest.

Erwin pulled him close as Rivaille pressed in, and Rivaille hooked an arm around Erwin’s neck, pressing close in every way possible until his cock was fully inside Erwin. They were connected everywhere, and they stayed still like that for a while, reveling in the incredible feeling of contact, of trust, of warmth.

As Rivaille started to thrust, he felt Erwin’s arms move further down and jumped when Erwin’s fingers pushed into his entrance. His mouth fell open, unbelievably aroused as he fucked forward into Erwin and then back onto the man’s fingers. The sensation was gorgeous.

Erwin didn’t last long. He usually didn’t with Rivaille inside of him, and he talked Rivaille through his own orgasm, words dirty and dark and _perfect_ , until Rivaille was coming inside him, fingers gripping so tightly around Erwin’s neck that he thought he might leave bruises.

In the hazy aftermath, they remained close, limbs entangled, Rivaille’s head pillowed on Erwin’s chest. Erwin was looking at him again in that way that made his chest tight, that made his stomach flutter, and he knew a light blush must colour his cheeks.

“I think we might be late,” Rivaille murmured, looking pointedly towards the window where it was clear that it was already getting dark outside.

Erwin grinned, “worth it. I think you liked that.”

“Oh, that’s definitely one to repeat. Who knew you’d be such a menace in the bedroom? Not complaining, by the way,” Rivaille said, smiling in return. They lay awhile, entwined in each other, grinning like fools.

* * *

Ymir and Furlan shared a pointed look when Erwin and Rivaille were the last to arrive at the gallery. Furlan whispered something in her ear, and she burst into laughter.

Historia appeared before them and threw her arms around them, dragging them towards their small party, practically jumping up and down with excitement, “you’re here! I am _so_ excited! Let’s get that champagne open!”

Right on cue, Hans popped a bottle open and expertly captured the foam streaming out of the bottle in the glass that Moblit was holding out for him.

The rest of the gallery was dark, with only the room the friends were gathered in illuminated by two lamps, one on either side of the room. It was enough light to see the set of eight paintings hanging on the walls, and Erwin’s feet moved of their own accord towards them.

“Are you ready for the opening tomorrow?” Rivaille asked Historia.

“I’m so nervous I could hardly eat all day, so, yes? And no? I don’t know. I’ll only be the third woman to ever exhibit here. I’m afraid of what people will think of the series.”

Erwin only kept one ear on the conversation, attention focused on the paintings. He had seen them all already in Historia’s studio, which was built into the flat she shared with Ymir. His gaze lingered on the first painting in the series: it was the first she had painted, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

There were Rivaille and Ymir, naked, laughing, so alive in the blurred motions of the brush strokes: the whole scene overlayed in warm hues of orange and yellow. It spoke of friendship and simple enjoyment of good company.

The next painting was also of the pair, but in this, they were still, Rivaille’s head turned into Ymir’s shoulder as if asleep whilst Ymir sat with both arms spread out over the settee like a man. Her gaze stared out of the painting, eyes half-closed, confident, daring. Historia had brought out all the shadows in blue and indigo, and all the brush strokes were as determined as Ymir’s startling gaze.

The series was incredible, and Erwin knew that Historia had a flourishing career ahead of her. As his friends began to drink and Hans put a record on the player he had lugged over especially, Erwin crossed the room to look at the last painting in the series.

Two heads stuck out from beneath rumpled bedsheets, one dark and one fair. It was surprising to see his own thick eyebrows captured so accurately by the simplistic brush strokes. From the angle, it was impossible to tell whether the figures were clothed, and Erwin smiled, remembering the day Historia had demanded to paint him with Rivaille. He remembered his own embarrassment, and how he had remained in his undergarments whilst Rivaille had practically marched around the flat, stark nude, with no qualms at all.

It was a strange choice of scene for a painting: just two figures half-asleep in a bed, hardly visible, hidden by the blankets, and yet Historia had tinged it all in light pink, the colour of a blush. Erwin knew exactly what she was trying to show.

He smiled, overwhelmed with a deep and simple happiness. He would never have imagined a Life like this, but here he was.

Footsteps approached him from behind, and then a set of arms were wrapping around his torso and spinning him around. Smiling, Rivaille pulled Erwin closer to the music, hands intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. Here we are! How far these idiots have come! I'm hardly ready to say goodbye to them. 
> 
> THANK YOU to all you lovely amazing souls who have followed this story until the end and kept me writing! Isn't it crazy that this started as a 4k one-shot and here we are now with 12 chapters and ~40k words?
> 
> I would love to know how the story reads as a whole and as always comments are love, they really do make my day, so let me know what you thought!
> 
> Finally, lmk if anyone's interested in these possible sequels I could write one day:  
> \- The story of Ymir and Historia  
> \- Hans' adventures in Germany & self-discovery  
> \- cross-dressing adventures for Historia's next painting series (everyone is mildly blown away by how pretty Rivaille is as a woman)y  
> \- learning how to dance (I theorize that Ymir is a boss on the dancefloor but Erwin is unbelievably awkward and needs lessons)y  
> \- a picnic of some kind, maybe in the gorgeous forests on the outskirts of Parisy  
> \- Rivaille sneaks into the university to surprise Erwin some timey  
> \- Furlan finds himself a gf? maybe? and are adorable together?y  
> \- further insight into Hans/Moblit's relationshipy  
> 


End file.
